ZUT 


SIND  OTHER 


GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


38j>  <35ttj>  Wttwn  CarrpI* 

THE  LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR.  Crown 
8vo,  $1.50. 

ZUT  AND  OTHER  PARISIANS.  Narrow 
i2tno. 

GRIMM  TALES  MADE  GAY.  Illustrated 
by  ALBERT  LEVERING.  Square  crown 
8vo,  $1.50,  net.  Postpaid,  $1.62. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


Zut 


GUY 


Zut 


AND  OTHER  PARISIANS 


YOJ{K 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

The  T{werside  Press,  Cambridge 

1903 


Copyright  1903  by  Guy  Wetmore  Carry/ 
All  rights  reserved 

Published  September,  1903 


C.  F.  G. 


IMon  cber  ami  : 

En  souvenir  de  maints  beaux 
jours  dont  tu  as  part  age  I'allegresse :  en  at- 
tendant d'autres  a  venir :  de  ceux-la  encore 
dont  tu  as  adouci  la  souffrance  et  I' ennui: 
par  reconnaissance  de  conseils  qu'on  n'oublie 
jamais  et  de  prevoyances  dont  on  se  sowvient 
toujours :  je  te  dedie  les  contes  suivants.  Tu 
y  retrouveras  beaucoup  a" amis  et  peut-ttre 
autant  d'inconnus :  tu  les  acceuilleras  assure- 
ment,  les  uns  et  les  autres,  avec  cette  belle 
bospitalite  qui  ne  s'est  jamais  dementie,  et  qui 
m'a  rendu  et  me  rendra  encore  —  esperons-le  ! 
—  ton  oblige  et  reconnaissant 

G.  W.  C. 


Page 

ZUT 3 

CAFFIARD,  Dem  ex  Machina 28 

THE  NEXT  CORNER 56 

THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 84 

THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 109 

LE  POCHARD 138 

A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 161 

POIRE! 190 

PAPALABESSE 215 

IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 245 

LITTLE  TAPIN 275 


ZUT 


Zut 


SIDE  by  side,  on  the  avenue  de  la  Grande 
Armee,  stand  theepicerieof  Jean-Baptiste 
Caille  and  the  salle  de  coiffure  of  Hip- 
polyte  Sergeot,  and  between  these  two  there 
is  a  great  gulf  fixed,  the  which  has  come  to  be 
through  the  acerbity  of  Alexandrine  Caille 
(according  to  Espe'rance  Sergeot),  through  the 
duplicity  of  Espe'rance  Sergeot  (according  to 
Alexandrine  Caille).  But  the  veritable  root  of 
all  evil  is  Zut,  and  Zut  sits  smiling  in  Jean- 
Baptiste's  doorway,  and  cares  naught  for  any- 
thing in  the  world,  save  the  sunlight  and  her 
midday  meal. 


4  ZUT 

When  Hippolyte  found  himself  in  a  position 
to  purchase  the  salle  de  coiffure,  he  gave  evi- 
dence of  marked  acumen  by  uniting  himself  in 
the  holy  —  and  civil  —  bonds  of  matrimony  with 
the  retiring  patron's  daughter,  whose  dot  ran 
into  the  coveted  five  figures,  and  whose  heart, 
said  Hippolyte,  was  as  good  as  her  face  was 
pretty,  which,  even  by  the  unprejudiced,  was 
acknowledged  to  be  forcible  commendation. 
The  installation  of  the  new  establishment  was 
a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  quartier.  It  is  a 
busy  thoroughfare  at  its  western  end,  is  the 
avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee,  crowded  with  bi- 
cyclists and  with  a  multitude  of  creatures  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  clad,  who  do  incompre- 
hensible things  in  connection  with  motor-car- 
riages. Also  there  are  big  cafes  in  plenty,  whose 
waiters  must  be  smoothly  shaven :  and  more- 
over, at  the  time  when  Hippolyte  came  into  his 
own,  the  porte  Maillot  station  of  the  Metropoli- 
tain  had  already  pushed  its  entre'e  and  sortie 
up  through  the  soil,  not  a  hundred  metres  from 
his  door,  where  they  stood  like  atrocious  yellow 
tulips,  art  nouveau,  breathing  people  out  and  in 
by  thousands.  There  was  no  lack  of  possible 
custom.  The  problem  was  to  turn  possible  into 


ZUT  5 

probable,  and  probable  into  permanent  j  and 
here  the  seven  wits  and  the  ten  thousand 
francs  of  Esperance  came  prominently  to  the 
fore.  She  it  was  who  sounded  the  progressive 
note,  which  is  half  the  secret  of  success. 

"  Pour  attirer  les  gens,"  she  said,  with  her 
arms  akimbo,  "il  faut  d'abord  les  epater." 

In  her  creed  all  that  was  worth  doing  at  all 
was  worth  doing  gloriously.  So,  under  her 
guidance,  Hippolyte  journeyed  from  shop  to 
shop  in  the  faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  spent 
hours  of  impassioned  argument  with  carpen- 
ters and  decorators.  In  the  end,  the  salle  de 
coiffure  was  glorified  by  fresh  paint  without  and 
within,  and  by  the  addition  of  a  long  mirror  in 
a  gilt  frame,  and  a  complicated  apparatus  of 
gleaming  nickel-plate,  which  went  by  the  im- 
posing title  of  appareil  antiseptique,  and  the 
acquisition  of  which  was  duly  proclaimed  by  a 
special  placard  that  swung  at  right  angles  to 
the  door.  The  shop  was  rechristened,  too,  and 
the  black  and  white  sign  across  its  front  which 
formerly  bore  the  simple  inscription  "  Kilbert, 
Coiffeur,"  now  blazoned  abroad  the  vastly 
more  impressive  legend  "  Salon  Malakoff." 
The  window  shelves  fairly  groaned  beneath 


6  ZUT 

their  burden  of  soaps,  toilet  waters,  and  per- 
fumery, a  string  of  bright  yellow  sponges  occu- 
pied each  corner  of  the  window,  and,  through 
the  agency  of  white  enamel  letters  on  the  pane 
itself,  public  attention  was  drawn  to  the  appar- 
ently contradictory  facts  that  English  was  spo- 
ken and  "  schampoing  "  given  within.  Then 
Hippolyte  engaged  two  assistants,  and  clad 
them  in  white  duck  jackets,  and  his  wife  fab- 
ricated a  new  blouse  of  blue  silk,  and  seated 
herself  behind  the  desk  with  an  engaging  smile. 
The  enterprise  was  fairly  launched,  and  expe- 
rience was  not  slow  in  proving  the  theories  of 
Esperance  to  be  well  founded.  The  quartier 
was  epate  from  the  start,  and  took  with  enthu- 
siasm the  bait  held  forth.  The  affairs  of  the 
Salon  Malakoff  prospered  prodigiously. 

But  there  is  a  serpent  in  every  Eden,  and 
in  that  of  the  Sergeot  this  role  was  assumed 
by  Alexandrine  Caille.  The  worthy  epicier 
himself  was  of  too  torpid  a  temperament  to 
fall  a  victim  to  the  gnawing  tooth  of  envy,  but 
in  the  soul  of  his  wife  the  launch,  and,  what 
was  worse,  the  immediate  prosperity  of  the 
Salon  Malakoff,  bred  dire  resentment.  Her 
own  establishment  had  grown  grimy  with  the 


ZUT  7 

passage  of  time,  and  the  annual  profits  dis- 
played a  constant  and  disturbing  tendency 
toward  complete  evaporation,  since  the  com- 
ing of  the  big  cafe's,  and  the  resultant  subver- 
sion of  custom  to  the  wholesale  dealers.  This 
persistent  narrowing  of  the  former  appreciable 
gap  between  purchase  and  selling  price  ran- 
kled in  Alexandrine's  mind,  but  her  misguided 
efforts  to  maintain  the  percentage  of  profit  by 
recourse  to  inferior  qualities  only  made  bad 
worse,  and,  even  as  the  Sergeot  were  steering 
the  Salon  Malakoff  forth  upon  the  waters  of 
prosperity,  there  were  nightly  conferences  in 
the  household  next  door,  at  which  impending 
ruin  presided,  and  exasperation  sounded  the 
keynote  of  every  sentence.  The  resplendent 
facade  of  Hippolyte's  establishment,  the  tide 
of  custom  which  poured  into  and  out  of  his 
door,  the  loudly  expressed  admiration  of  his 
ability  and  thrift,  which  greeted  her  ears  on 
every  side,  and,  finally,  the  sight  of  Espe'rance, 
fresh,  smiling,  and  prosperous,  behind  her  lit- 
tle counter,  —  all  these  were  as  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  Alexandrine,  brooding  over  her  ac- 
cumulating debts  and  her  decreasing  earnings, 
among  her  dusty  stacks  of  jars  and  boxes. 


8  ZUT 

Once  she  had  called  upon  her  neighbor,  some- 
what for  courtesy's  sake,  but  more  for  curios- 
ity's, and  since  then  the  agreeable  scent  of 
violet  and  lilac  perfumery  dwelt  always  in  her 
memory,  and  mirages  of  scrupulously  polished 
nickel  and  glass  hung  always  before  her  eyes. 
The  air  of  her  own  shop  was  heavy  with  the 
pungent  odors  of  raw  vegetables,  cheeses,  and 
dried  fish,  and  no  brilliance  redeemed  the 
sardine  and  biscuit  boxes  which  surrounded 
her.  Life  became  a  bitter  thing  to  Alexan- 
drine Caille,  for  if  nothing  is  more  gratifying 
than  one's  own  success,  surely  nothing  is  less 
so  than  that  of  one's  neighbor.  Moreover,  her 
visit  had  never  been  returned,  and  this  again 
was  fuel  for  her  rage. 

But  the  sharpest  thorn  in  her  flesh  —  and 
even  in  that  of  her  phlegmatic  husband  —  was 
the  base  desertion  to  the  enemy's  camp  of 
Abel  Flique.  In  the  days  when  Madame 
Caille  was  unmarried,  and  when  her  ninety 
kilos  were  fifty  still,  Abel  had  been  youngest 
commis  in  the  very  shop  over  which  she  now 
held  sway,  and  the  most  devoted  suitor  in  .all 
her  train.  Even  after  his  prowess  in  the  black 
days  of  '71  had  won  him  the  attention  of  the 


ZUT  9 

civil  authorities,  and  a  grateful  municipality 
had  transformed  the  grocer-soldier  into  a  guard- 
ian of  law  and  order,  he  still  hung  upon  the 
favor  of  his  heart's  first  love,  and  only  gave  up 
the  struggle  when  Jean-Baptiste  bore  off  the 
prize  and  enthroned  her  in  state  as  presiding 
genius  of  his  newly  acquired  epicerie.  Later,  an 
unwittingly  kindly  prefect  had  transferred  Abel 
to  the  seventeenth  arrondissement,  and  so  the 
old  friendship  was  picked  up  where  it  had  been 
dropped,  and  the  ruddy-faced  agent  found  it 
both  convenient  and  agreeable  to  drop  in  fre- 
quently at  Madame  Caille's  on  his  way  home, 
and  exchange  a  few  words  of  reminiscence  or 
banter  for  a  box  of  sardines  or  a  minute  pack- 
age of  tea.  But,  with  the  deterioration  in  his 
old  friends'  wares,  and  the  almost  simulta- 
neous appearance  of  the  Salon  Malakoff,  his 
loyalty  wavered.  Flique  sampled  the  advan- 
tages of  Hippolyte's  establishment,  and,  being 
won  over  thereby,  returned  again  and  again. 
His  hearty  laugh  came  to  be  heard  almost 
daily  in  the  salle  de  coiffure,  and  because  he 
was  a  brave  homme  and  a  good  customer,  who 
did  not  stand  upon  a  question  of  a  few  sous, 
but  allowed  Hippolyte  to  work  his  will,  and 


10  ZUT 

trim  and  curl  and  perfume  him  to  his  heart's 
content,  there  was  always  a  welcome  for  him, 
and  a  smile  from  Madame  Sergeot,  and  occa- 
sionally a  little  present  of  brillantine  or  per- 
fumery, for  friendship's  sake,  and  because  it 
is  well  to  have  the  good-will  of  the  all-powerful 
police. 

From  her  window  Madame  Caille  observed 
the  comings  and  goings  of  Abel  with  a  resent- 
ful eye.  It  was  rarely  now  that  he  glanced 
into  the  epicerie  as  he  passed,  and  still  more 
rarely  that  he  greeted  his  former  flame  with  a 
stiff  nod.  Once  she  had  hailed  him  from  the 
doorway,  sardines  in  hand,  but  he  had  replied 
that  he  was  pressed  for  time,  and  had  passed 
rapidly  on.  Then  indeed  did  blackness  de- 
scend upon  the  soul  of  Alexandrine,  and  in 
her  deepest  consciousness  she  vowed  to  have 
revenge.  Neither  the  occasion  nor  the  method 
was  as  yet  clear  to  her,  but  she  pursed  her  lips 
ominously,  and  bided  her  time. 

In  the  existence  of  Madame  Caille  there  was 
one  emphatic  consolation  for  all  misfortunes, 
the  which  was  none  other  than  Zut,  a  white 
angora  cat  of  surpassing  beauty  and  prodigious 
size.  She  had  come  into  Alexandrine's  pos- 


ZUT  11 

session  as  a  kitten,  and,  what  with  much  eating 
and  an  inherent  distaste  for  exercise,  had  at- 
tained her  present  proportions  and  her  superb 
air  of  unconcern.  It  was  from  the  latter  that 
she  derived  her  name,  the  which,  in  Parisian 
argot,  at  once  means  everything  and  nothing, 
but  is  chiefly  taken  to  signify  complete  and 
magnificent  indifference  to  all  things  mundane 
and  material :  and  in  the  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence Zut  was  past-mistress.  Even  for  Madame 
Caille  herself,  who  fed  her  with  the  choicest 
morsels  from  her  own  plate,  brushed  her  fine 
fur  with  excessive  care,  and  addressed  caress- 
ing remarks  to  her  at  minute  intervals  through- 
out the  day,  Zut  manifested  a  lack  of  interest 
that  amounted  to  contempt.  As  she  basked  in 
the  warm  sun  at  the  shop  door,  the  round  face 
of  her  mistress  beamed  upon  her  from  the  little 
desk,  and  the  voice  of  her  mistress  sent  ful- 
some flattery  winging  toward  her  on  the  heavy 
air.  Was  she  beautiful,  mon  Dieu  !  In  effect, 
all  that  one  could  dream  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful !  And  her  eyes,  of  a  blue  like  the  heaven, 
were  they  not  wise  and  calm?  Mon  Dieu, 
yes  !  It  was  a  cat  among  thousands,  a  mim; 
almost  divine. 


12  ZUT 

Jean-Baptiste,  appealed  to  for  confirmation 
of  these  statements,  replied  that  it  was  so. 
There  was  no  denying  that  this  was  a  magnifi- 
cent beast.  And  of  a  chic.  And  caressing  — 
(which  was  exaggeration).  And  of  an  affec- 
tion —  (which  was  doubtful).  And  courageous 
—  (which  was  wholly  untrue.)  Mazette,  yes  ! 
A  cat  of  cats !  And  was  the  boy  to  be  the 
whole  afternoon  in  delivering  a  cheese,  he  de- 
manded of  her?  And  Madame  Caille  would 
challenge  him  to  ask  her  that  —  but  it  was  a 
good,  great  beast  all  the  same  !  —  and  so  bury 
herself  again  in  her  accounts,  until  her  atten- 
tion was  once  more  drawn  to  Zut,  and  fresh 
flattery  poured  forth.  For  all  of  this  Zut  cared 
less  than  nothing.  In  the  midst  of  her  mis- 
tress's sweetest  cajolery,  she  simply  closed  her 
sapphire  eyes,  with  an  inexpressibly  eloquent 
air  of  weariness,  or  turned  to  the  intricacies  of 
her  toilet,  as  who  should  say :  "  Continue.  I 
am  listening.  But  it  is  unimportant." 

But  long  familiarity  with  her  disdain  had 
deprived  it  of  any  sting,  so  far  as  Alexandrine 
was  concerned.  Passive  indifference  she  could 
suffer.  It  was  only  when  Zut  proceeded  to 
an  active  manifestation  of  ingratitude  that  she 


ZUT  13 

inflicted  an  irremediable  wound.  Returning 
from  her  marketing  one  morning,  Madame 
Caitle  discovered  her  graceless  favorite  seated 
complacently  in  the  doorway  of  the  Salon 
Malakoff,  and,  in  a  paroxysm  of  indignation, 
bore  down  upon  her,  and  snatched  her  to  her 
breast. 

"  Unhappy  one  ! "  she  cried,  planting  her- 
self in  full  view  of  Esperance,  and,  while  rain- 
ing the  letter  of  her  reproach  upon  the  truant, 
contriving  to  apply  its  spirit  wholly  to  her 
neighbor.  "What  hast  thou  done?  Is  it  that 
thou  desertest  me  for  strangers,  who  may  de- 
stroy thee?  Name  of  a  name,  hast  thou  no 
heart  ?  They  would  steal  thee  from  me  —  and 
above  all,  now !  Well  then,  no  !  One  shall 
see  if  such  things  are  permitted !  Vaga- 
bond!"  And  with  this  parting  shot,  which 
passed  harmlessly  over  the  head  of  the  of- 
fender, and  launched  itself  full  at  Madame  Ser- 
geot,  the  outraged  e'piciere  flounced  back  into 
her  own  domain,  where,  turning,  she  threatened 
the  empty  air  with  a  passionate  gesture. 

"Vagabond!"  she  repeated.  "Good-for- 
nothing  !  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  robbed  me 
of  my  friends,  that  you  must  steal  my  child  as 


14  ZUT 

well  ?    We  shall  see ! "  —  then,  suddenly  soften-       i 
ing —  "  Thou  art  beautiful,  and  good,  and  wise. 
Mon  Dieu,  if  I  should  lose  thee,  and  above  all, 
now/'1 

Now  there  existed  a  marked,  if  unvoiced, 
community  of  feeling  between  Esperance  and 
her  resentful  neighbor,  for  the  former's  passion 
for  cats  was  more  consuming  even  than  the 
latter's.  She  had  long  cherished  the  dream  of 
possessing  a  white  angora,  and  when,  that  morn- 
ing, of  her  own  accord,  Zut  stepped  into  the 
Salon  Malakoff,  she  was  received  with  demon- 
strations even  warmer  than  those  to  which  she 
had  long  since  become  accustomed.  And, 
whether  it  was  the  novelty  of  her  surroundings, 
or  merely  some  unwonted  instinct  which  made 
her  unusually  susceptible,  her  habitual  indiffer- 
ence then  and  there  gave  place  to  animation, 
and  her  satisfaction  was  vented  in  her  long, 
appreciative  purr,  wherewith  it  was  not  once 
a  year  that  she  vouchsafed  to  gladden  her 
owner's  heart.  Espe'rance  hastened  to  prepare 
a  saucer  of  milk,  and,  when  this  was  exhausted, 
added  a  generous  portion  of  fish,  and  Zut  then 
made  a  tour  of  the  shop,  rubbing  herself  against 
the  chair-legs,  and  receiving  the  homage  of  cus- 


ZUT  15 

tomers  and  duck-clad  assistants  alike.  Flique. 
his  ruddy  face  screwed  into  a  mere  knot  of 
features,  as  Hippolyte  worked  violet  hair-tonic 
into  his  brittle  locks,  was  moved  to  satire  by 
the  apparition. 

"  Tiens !  It  is  with  the  cat  as  with  the 
clients.  All  the  world  forsakes  the  Caille." 

Strangely  enough,  the  wrathful  words  of 
Alexandrine,  as  she  snatched  her  darling  from 
the  doorway,  awoke  in  the  mind  of  Esperance 
her  first  suspicion  of  this  smouldering  resent- 
ment. Absorbed  in  the  launching  of  her  hus- 
band's affairs,  and  constantly  employed  in  the 
making  of  change  and  with  the  keeping  of  her 
simple  accounts,  she  had  had  no  time  to  bestow 
upon  her  neighbors,  and,  even  had  her  atten- 
tion been  free,  she  could  hardly  have  been  ex- 
pected to  deduce  the  rancor  of  Madame  Caille 
from  the  evidence  at  hand.  But  even  if  she 
had  been  able  to  ignore  the  significance  of  that 
furious  outburst  at  her  very  door,  its  meaning 
had  not  been  lost  upon  the  others,  and  her  own 
half-formed  conviction  was  speedily  confirmed. 

"  What  has  she  ?  "  cried  Hippolyte,  pausing 
in  the  final  stage  of  his  operations  upon  the 
highly  perfumed  Flique. 


16  ZUT 

"  Do  I  know  ?  "  replied  his  wife  with  a  shrug. 
"  She  thinks  I  stole  her  cat  —  //" 

"  Quite  simply,  she  hates  you,"  put  in  Flique. 
"  And  why  not?  She  is  old,  and  fat,  and  her 
business  is  taking  itself  off,  like  that !  You 
are  young  and"  —  with  a  bow,  as  he  rose  — 
"  beautiful,  and  your  affairs  march  to  a  mar- 
vel. She  is  jealous,  c'est  tout !  It  is  a  bad 
character,  that." 

"But,  mon  Dieu!"  — 

"  But  what  does  that  say  to  you  ?  Let  her 
go  her  way,  she  and  her  cat.  Au  r'voir,  'sieurs, 
'dame." 

And,  rattling  a  couple  of  sous  into  the  little 
urn  reserved  for  tips,  the  policeman  took  his 
departure,  amid  a  chorus  of  "  Merci,  m'sieu', 
au  r'voir,  m'sieu',"  from  Hippolyte  and  his 
duck-clad  aids. 

But  what  he  had  said  remained  behind.  All 
day  Madame  Sergeot  pondered  upon  the  inci- 
dent of  the  morning  and  Abel  Flique's  com- 
ments thereupon,  seeking  out  some  more  plaus- 
ible reason  for  this  hitherto  unsuspected  enmity 
than  the  mere  contrast  between  her  material 
conditions  and  those  of  Madame  Caille  seemed 
to  her  to  afford.  For,  to  a  natural  placidity  of 


ZUT  17 

temperament,  which  manifested  itself  in  a  re- 
luctance to  incur  the  displeasure  of  any  one, 
had  been  lately  added  in  Esperance  a  shrewd 
commercial  instinct,  which  told  her  that  the 
fortunes  of  the  Salon  Malakoff  might  readily 
be  imperiled  by  an  unfriendly  tongue.  In  the 
quartier,  gossip  spread  quickly  and  took  deep 
root.  It  was  quite  imaginably  within  the  power 
of  Madame  Caille  to  circulate  such  rumors  of 
Sergeot  dishonesty  as  should  draw  their  lately 
won  custom  from  them  and  leave  but  empty 
chairs  and  discontent  where  now  all  was  pros- 
perity and  satisfaction. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  her  the  memory  of 
that  visit  which  she  had  never  returned.  Mon 
Dieu  !  and  was  not  that  reason  enough  ?  She, 
the  youngest  patronne  in  the  quartier,  to  ignore 
deliberately  the  friendly  call  of  a  neighbor  ! 
At  least  it  was  not  too  late  to  make  amends. 
So,  when  business  lagged  a  little  in  the  late 
afternoon,  Madame  Sergeot  slipped  from  her 
desk,  and,  after  a  furtive  touch  to  her  hair, 
went  in  next  door  to  pour  oil  upon  the  troubled 
waters. 

Madame  Caille,  throned  at  her  counter,  re- 
ceived her  visitor  with  unexampled  frigidity. 


18  ZUT 

"  Ah,  it  is  you,"  she  said.  "  You  have  come 
to  make  some  purchases,  no  doubt." 

"  Eggs,  madame,"  answered  her  visitor,  dis- 
concerted, but  tactfully  accepting  the  hint. 

"  The  best  quality  —  or  —  ?  "  demanded 
Alexandrine,  with  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer. 

"  The  best,  evidently,  madame.  Six,  if  you 
please.  Spring  weather  at  last,  it  would 
seem." 

To  this  generality  the  other  made  no  reply. 
Descending  from  her  stool,  she  blew  sharply 
into  a  small  paper  bag,  thereby  distending  it 
into  a  miniature  balloon,  and  began  select- 
ing the  eggs  from  a  basket,  holding  each  one 
to  the  light,  and  then  dusting  it  with  exagger- 
ated care  before  placing  it  in  the  bag.  While 
she  was  thus  employed  Zut  advanced  from  a 
secluded  corner,  and,  stretching  her  fore  legs 
slowly  to  their  utmost  length,  greeted  her  ac- 
quaintance of  the  morning  with  a  yawn.  Find- 
ing in  the  cat  an  outlet  for  her  embarrassment, 
Esperance  made  another  effort  to  give  the 
interview  a  friendly  turn. 

"  He  is  beautiful,  madame,  your  matou,"  she 
said. 

"It  is  a  female,"  replied  Madame  Caille, 


ZUT  19 

turning  abruptly  from  the  basket,  "  and  she 
does  not  care  for  strangers." 

This  second  snub  was  not  calculated  to  en- 
courage neighborly  overtures,  but  Madame  Ser- 
geot  had  felt  herself  to  be  in  the  wrong,  and 
was  not  to  be  so  readily  repulsed. 

"We  do  not  see  Monsieur  Caille  at  the 
Salon  Malakoff,"  she  continued.  "  We  should 
be  enchanted  "  — 

"  My  husband  shaves  himself,"  retorted  Alex- 
andrine, with  renewed  dignity. 
,    "  But  his  hair  "  —  ventured  Espe'rance. 

"  /cut  it !  "  thundered  her  foe. 

Here  Madame  Sergeot  made  a  false  move. 
She  laughed.  Then,  in  confusion,  and  striv- 
ing, too  late,  to  retrieve  herself  —  "Pardon, 
madame,"  she  added,  "but  it  seems  droll  to 
me,  that.  After  all,  ten  sous  is  a  sum  so 
small "  — 

"  All  the  world,  unfortunately,"  broke  in 
Madame  Caille,  "has  not  the  wherewithal  to 
buy  mirrors,  and  pay  itself  frescoes  and  appa- 
reils  antiseptiques !  The  eggs  are  twenty-four 
sous  —  but  we  do  not  pride  ourselves  upon  our 
eggs.  Perhaps  you  had  better  seek  them  else- 
where for  the  future  ! " 


20  ZUT 

For  sole  reply  Madame  Sergeot  had  recourse 
to  her  expressive  shrug,  and  then  laying  two 
francs  upon  the  counter,  and  gathering  up  the 
sous  which  Alexandrine  rather  hurled  at  than 
handed  her,  she  took  her  way  toward  the  door 
with  all  the  dignity  at  her  command.  But 
Madame  Caille,  feeling  her  snub  to  have  been 
insufficient,  could  not  let  her  go  without  a 
final  thrust. 

"  Perhaps  your  husband  will  be  so  amiable 
as  to  shampoo  my  cat !  "  she  shouted.  "  She 
seems  to  like  your  '  Salon ' !  " 

But  Esperance,  while  for  concord's  sake 
inclined  to  tolerate  all  rudeness  to  herself,  was 
not  prepared  to  hear  Hippolyte  insulted,  and 
so,  wheeling  at  the  doorway,  flung  all  her  re- 
sentment into  two  words. 

"  Mai  e'leve'e  !  " 

"  Gueuse !  "  screamed  Alexandrine  from  the 
desk.  And  so  they  parted. 

Now,  even  at  this  stage,  an  armed  truce 
might  still  have  been  preserved,  had  Zut  been 
content  with  the  evil  she  had  wrought,  and 
not  thought  it  incumbent  upon  her  further  to 
embitter  a  quarrel  that  was  a  very  pretty  quar- 
rel as  it  stood.  But,  whether  it  was  that  the 


ZUT  21 

milk  and  fish  of  the  Salon  Malakoff  lay  sweeter 
upon  her  memory  than  any  of  the  familiar 
dainties  of  the  epicerie  Caille,  or  that,  by  her 
unknowable  feline  instinct,  she  was  irresist- 
ibly drawn  toward  the  scent  of  violet  and  lilac 
brillantine,  her  first  visit  to  the  Sergeot  was 
soon  repeated,  and  from  this  visit  other  visits 
grew,  until  it  was  almost  a  daily  occurrence 
for  her  to  saunter  slowly  into  the  salle  de 
coiffure,  and  there  receive  the  food  and  hom- 
age which  were  rendered  as  her  undisputed 
due.  For,  whatever  was  the  bitterness  of  Es- 
p&rance  toward  Madame  Caille,  no  part  thereof 
descended  upon  Zut.  On  the  contrary,  at  each 
visit  her  heart  was  more  drawn  toward  the 
sleek  angora,  and  her  desire  but  strengthened 
to  possess  her  peer.  But  white  angoras  are  a 
luxury,  and  an  expensive  one  at  that,  and,  how- 
ever prosperous  the  Salon  Malakoff  might  be, 
its  proprietors  were  not  as  yet  in  a  position  to 
squander  eighty  francs  upon  a  whim.  So,  until 
profits  should  mount  higher,  Madame  Sergeot 
was  forced  to  content  herself  with  the  volun- 
tary visits  of  her  neighbor's  pet. 

Madame  Caille  did  not  yield  her  rights  of 
sovereignty  without  a  struggle.     On  the  occa- 


22  ZUT 

sion  of  Zut's  third  visit,  she  descended  upon 
the  Salon  Malakoff,  robed  in  wrath,  and  found 
the  adored  one  contentedly  feeding  on  fish  in 
the  very  bosom  of  the  family  Sergeot.  An 
appalling  scene  ensued. 

"  If,"  she  stormed,  crimson  of  countenance, 
and  threatening  Esperance  with  her  fist,  t(  if 
you  must  entice  my  cat  from  her  home,  at  least 
I  will  thank  you  not  to  give  her  food.  I  pro- 
vide all  that  is  necessary ;  and,  for  the  rest, 
how  do  I  know  what  is  in  that  saucer  ?  " 

And  she  surveyed  the  duck-clad  assistants 
and  the  astounded  customers  with  tremendous 
scorn. 

"  You  others,"  she  added,  "  I  ask  you,  is  it 
just  ?  These  people  take  my  cat,  and  feed  her 
— feed  her  —  with  I  know  not  what !  It  is  over- 
whelming, unheard  of  —  and,  above  all,  now/" 

But  here  the  peaceful  Hippolyte  played 
trumps. 

"  It  is  the  privilege  of  the  vulgar,"  he  cried, 
advancing,  razor  in  hand,  "when  they  are  at 
home,  to  insult  their  neighbors,  but  here  —  no  ! 
My  wife  has  told  me  of  you  and  of  your  say- 
ings. Beware  !  or  I  shall  arrange  your  affair 
for  you  !  Go !  you  and  your  cat !  " 


ZUT  23 

And,  by  way  of  emphasis,  he  fairly  kicked 
Zut  into  her  astonished  owner's  arms.  He  was 
magnificent,  was  Hippolyte  ! 

This  anecdote,  duly  elaborated,  was  poured 
into  the  ears  of  Abel  Flique  an  hour  later,  and 
that  evening  he  paid  his  first  visit  in  many 
months  to  Madame  Caille.  She  greeted  him 
effusively,  being  willing  to  pardon  all  the  past 
for  the  sake  of  regaining  this  powerful  friend. 
But  the  glitter  in  the  agent's  eye  would  have 
cowed  a  fiercer  spirit  than  hers. 

"  You  amuse  yourself,"  he  said  sternly,  look- 
ing straight  at  her  over  the  handful  of  raisins 
which  she  tendered  him,  "by  wearying  my 
friends.  I  counsel  you  to  take  care.  One 
does  not  sell  inferior  eggs  in  Paris  without 
hearing  of  it  sooner  or  later.  I  know  more 
than  I  have  told,  but  not  more  than  I  can  tell, 
if  I  choose." 

"  Our  ancient  friendship  "  —  faltered  Alex- 
andrine, touched  in  a  vulnerable  spot. 

"  —  preserves  you  thus  far,"  added  Flique, 
no  less  unmoved.  "Beware  how  you  abuse 
it!" 

And  so  the  calls  of  Zut  were  no  longer  dis- 
turbed. 


24  ZUT 

But  the  rover  spirit  is  progressive,  and  thus 
short  visits  became  long  visits,  and  finally  the 
angora  spent  whole  nights  in  the  Salon  Mala- 
koff,  where  a  box  and  a  bit  of  carpet  were  pro- 
vided for  her.  And  one  fateful  morning  the 
meaning  of  Madame  Caille's  significant  words 
"  and  above  all,  now  !  "  was  made  clear. 

The  prosperity  of  Hippolyte's  establishment 
had  grown  apace,  so  that,  on  the  morning  in 
question,  the  three  chairs  were  occupied,  and 
yet  other  customers  awaited  their  turn.  The 
air  was  laden  with  violet  and  lilac.  A  stout 
chauffeur,  in  a  leather  suit,  thickly  coated  with 
dust,  was  undergoing  a  shampoo  at  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  duck-clad,  and,  under  the  skill- 
fully plied  razor  of  the  other,  the  virgin  down 
slid  from  the  lips  and  chin  of  a  slim  and  some- 
what startled  youth,  while  from  a  vaporizer 
Hippolyte  played  a  fine  spray  of  perfumed 
water  upon  the  ruddy  countenance  of  Abel 
Flique.  It  was  an  eloquent  moment,  emi- 
nently fitted  for  some  dramatic  incident,  and 
that  dramatic  incident  Zut  supplied.  She  ad- 
vanced slowly  and  with  an  air  of  conscious 
dignity  from  the  corner  where  was  her  carpeted 
box,  and  in  her  mouth  was  a  limp  something, 


ZUT  25 

which,  when  deposited  in  the  immediate  centre 
of  the  Salon  Malakoff,  resolved  itself  into  an 
angora  kitten,  as  white  as  snow  ! 

"  Epatant ! "  said  Flique,  mopping  his  per- 
fumed chin.  And  so  it  was. 

There  was  an  immediate  investigation  of 
Zut's  quarters,  which  revealed  four  other 
kittens,  but  each  of  these  was  marked  with 
black  or  tan.  It  was  the  flower  of  the  flock 
with  which  the  proud  mother  had  won  her 
public. 

"  And  they  are  all  yours !  "  cried  Flique, 
when  the  question  of  ownership  arose.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  yes  !  There  was  such  a  case  not  a  month 
ago,  in  the  eighth  arrondissement — a  conci- 
erge of  the  avenue  Hoche  who  made  a  con- 
trary claim.  But  the  courts  decided  against 
her.  They  are  all  yours,  Madame  Sergeot. 
My  felicitations  !  " 

Now,  as  we  have  said,  Madame  Sergeot  was 
of  a  placid  temperament  which  sought  not 
strife.  But  the  unprovoked  insults  of  Madame 
Caille  had  struck  deep,  and,  after  all,  she  was 
but  human. 

So  it  was  that,  seated  at  her  tittle  desk,  she 
composed  the  following  masterpiece  of  satire  : 


26  ZUT 

CHERE  MADAME,  —  We  send  you  back  your 
cat,  and  the  others  —  all  but  one.  One  kitten 
was  of  a  pure  white,  more  beautiful  even  than 
its  mother.  As  we  have  long  desired  a  white 
angora,  we  keep  this  one  as  a  souvenir  of  you. 
We  regret  that  we  do  not  see  the  means  of 
accepting  the  kind  offer  you  were  so  amiable 
as  to  make  us.  We  fear  that  we  shall  not  find 
time  to  shampoo  your  cat,  as  we  shall  be  so 
busy  taking  care  of  our  own.  Monsieur  Flique 
will  explain  the  rest. 

We  pray  you  to  accept,  madame,  the  assur- 
ance of  our  distinguished  consideration, 

HlPPOLYTE  AND  ESPERANCE  SfiRGEOT. 

It  was  Abel  Flique  who  conveyed  the  above 
epistle,  and  Zut,  and  four  of  Zut's  kittens,  to 
Alexandrine  Caille,  and,  when  that  wrathful 
person  would  have  rent  him  with  tooth  and 
nail,  it  was  Abel  Flique  who  laid  his  finger  on 
his  lip,  and  said,  — 

"  Concern  yourself  with  the  superior  kitten, 
madame,  and  I  concern  myself  with  the  in- 
ferior eggs ! " 

To  which  Alexandrine  made  no  reply.  Af- 
ter Flique  had  taken  his  departure,  she  remained 


ZUT  27 

speechless  for  five  consecutive  minutes  for  the 
first  time  in  the  whole  of  her  waking  existence, 
gazing  at  the  spot  at  her  feet  where  sprawled 
the  white  angora,  surrounded  by  her  mottled 
offspring.  Even  when  the  first  shock  of  her 
defeat  had  passed,  she  simply  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  and  uttered  two  words,  — 

"Oh,  Zut!" 

The  which,  in  Parisian  argot,  at  once  means 
everything  and  nothing. 


Caffiard 


DEUS  EX  MACHINA 

THE  studio  was  tucked  away  in  the  ex- 
treme upper  northeast  corner  of  13  ter 
rue  Visconti,  higher  even  than  that  cin- 
quieme,  dearly  beloved  of  the  impecunious, 
and  of  whoso,  between  stairs  and  street  odors, 
chooses  the  lesser  evil,  and  is  more  careful  of 
lungs  than  legs.  After  the  six  long  flights  had 
been  achieved,  around  a  sharp  corner  and  up 
a  little  winding  stairway,  was  the  door  which 
bore  the  name  of  Pierre  Vauquelin.  Inside, 
after  stumbling  along  a  narrow  hall,  as  black 
as  Erebus,  and  floundering  through  a  curtained 


CAFFIARD  29 


doorway,  one  came  abruptly  into  the  studio, 
and,  in  all  probability,  fell  headlong  over  a 
little  rattan  stool,  or  an  easel,  or  a  box  of 
paints,  and  was  picked  up  by  the  host,  and 
dusted,  and  put  to  rights,  and  made  much  of, 
like  a  bumped  child.  Thus  restored  to  equa- 
nimity one  was  better  able  to  appreciate  what 
Pierre  called  la  Boite. 

The  Box  was  a  room  eight  metres  in  width 
by  ten  in  length,  with  a  skylight  above,  and  a 
great,  square  window  in  the  riorth  wall,  which 
latter  sloped  inward  from  floor  to  ceiling,  by 
reason  of  the  mansarde  roof.  Of  what  might 
be  called  furniture  there  was  but  little,  a  Nor- 
man cupboard  of  black  wood,  heavily  carved, 
a  long  divan,  contrived  from  various  packing 
boxes  and  well-worn  rugs,  a  large,  square  table, 
a  half  dozen  chairs,  three  easels,  and  a  repul- 
sive little  stove  with  an  interminable  pipe, 
which,  with  its  many  twists  and  turns,  gave 
one  the  impression  of  a  thick,  black  snake, 
that  had,  a  moment  before,  been  swaying  about 
in  the  room,  and  had  suddenly  found  a  hole  in 
the  roof  through  which  to  thrust  its  head. 

But  of  minor  things  the  Box  was  full  to  over- 
flowing. The  Norman  cupboard  was  crammed 


30  CAFFIARD 


with  an  assortment  of  crockery,  much  of  it 
sadly  nicked  and  cracked,  the  divan  was  strewn 
with  boxes  of  broken  pastels,  paint-brushes, 
and  palettes  coated  with  dried  colors,  the  table 
littered  with  papers,  sketches,  and  books,  and 
every  chair  had  its  own  particular  trap  for  the 
unwary,  in  the  form  of  thumb-tacks  or  a  glass 
half  full  of  cloudy  water :  and  in  the  midst  of 
this  chaos,  late  on  a  certain  mid-May  after- 
noon, stood  the  painter  himself,  with  his  hands 
thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  corduroy 
trousers,  and  his  back  turned  upon  the  portrait 
upon  which  he  had  been  at  work.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  something  untoward  was  in  the  air, 
because  Pierre,  who  always  smoked,  was  not 
smoking,  and  Pierre,  who  never  scowled,  was 
scowling. 

In  the  Quartier  —  that  Quartier  which  alone, 
of  them  all,  is  spelt  with  a  capital  Q  —  there 
was,  in  ordinary,  no  gayer,  more  happy-go- 
lucky  type  than  this  same  Pierre.  He  lived, 
as  did  a  thousand  of  his  kind,  on  eighty  sous 
a  day  (there  were  those  who  lived  on  less, 
pardi !),  and  breakfasted,  and  dined,  at  that,  — 
yes,  and  paid  himself  an  absinthe  at  the  Deux 
Magots  at  six  o'clock,  and  a  package  of  green 


CAFFIARD  31 


cigarettes,  into  the  bargain.  For  the  rest  of 
the  time,  he  was  understood  to  be  working  on 
a  portrait  in  his  studio,  and,  what  is  more 
surprising,  often  was.  There  was  nothing  re- 
markable about  Pierre's  portraits,  except  that 
occasionally  he  sold  one,  and  for  money  —  for 
actual  money,  the  astonishing  animal  !  But  if 
any  part  of  the  modest  proceeds  of  such  a 
transaction  remained,  after  the  rent  had  been 
paid  and  a  new  canvas  purchased,  it  was  not 
the  caisse  dMpargne  which  saw  it,  be  sure  of 
that !  For  Pierre  lived  always  for  the  next 
twenty-four  hours,  and  let  the  rest  of  time  and 
eternity  look  out  for  themselves. 

Yet  he  took  his  work  seriously.  That  was 
the  trouble.  Even  admitting  that,  thus  far, 
his  orders  had  come  only  from  the  more  pros- 
perous tradesmen  of  the  Quartier,  did  that 
mean,  par  exemple,  that  they  would  not  come 
in  time  from  the  millionaires  of  the  sixteenth 
arrondissement  ?  By  no  means,  whatever,  said 
Pierre.  To  be  sure,  he  had  never  had  the  Salon 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  so  to  speak,  but  what 
of  that  ?  Jean-Paul  himself  would  tell  you  that 
it  was  all  favoritism !  So  Pierre  toiled  away 
at  his  portrait  painting,  and  made  a  little  com- 


32  CAFFIARD 


petency,  but,  if  the  truth  were  told,  no  appre- 
ciable progress  from  year's  beginning  to  year's 
end. 

For  once,  however,  his  luck  had  played  him 
false.  The  fat  restaurateur,  whose  wife's  por- 
trait he  had  finished  that  afternoon  and  carried 
at  top  speed,  with  the  paint  not  yet  dry,  to  the 
rue  du  Bac,  was  out  of  town  on  business,  and 
would  not  return  until  the  following  evening ; 
and  that,  so  far  as  Pierre  was  concerned,  was 
quite  as  bad  as  if  he  were  not  expected  until 
the  following  year.  Pierre's  total  wealth 
amounted  to  one  five-franc  piece  and  three 
sous,  and  he  had  been  relying  upon  the  res- 
taurateur's four  louis,  to  enable  him  to  fulfill 
his  promise  to  Mimi.  For  the  next  day  was  her 
fete,  and  they  were  to  have  breakfasted  in  the 
country,  and  taken  a  boat  upon  the  Seine,  and 
returned  to  dine  under  the  trees.  Not  at  Su- 
resnes  or  St.  Cloud,  ah,  non  !  Something  bet- 
ter than  that  —  the  true  country,  sapristi !  at 
Poissy,  twenty-eight  kilometres  from  Paris. 
All  of  which  meant  at  least  a  louis,  and,  no 
doubt,  more  !  And  where,  demanded  Pierre 
of  the  great  north  window,  where  was  a  louis 
to  be  found  ? 


CAFFIARD  33 

For  there  was  a  tacit  understanding  among 
the  comrades  in  the  Quartier  that  there  must 
be  no  borrowing  and  lending  of  money.  It 
was  a  clause  of  their  creed,  which  had  been 
adopted  in  the  early  days  of  their  companion- 
ship, for  what  was,  clearly,  the  greatest  general 
good,  the  chances  being  that  no  one  of  them 
would  ever  possess  sufficient  surplus  capital 
either  to  accommodate  another  or  to  repay  an 
accommodation.  For  a  moment,  to  be  snre,  the 
thought  had  crossed  Pierre's  mind,  but  he-fead 
rejected  it  instantly  as  impracticable.  Aside 
from  the  unwritten  compact,  there  was  no  one 
of  them  all  who  could  have  been  of  service, 
had  he  so  willed.  Even  Jacques  Courbet,  who 
possessed  a  disposition  which  would  have  im- 
pelled him  to  chop  off  his  right  hand  with  the 
utmost  cheerfulness,  if  thereby  he  could  have 
gratified  a  friend,  was  worse  than  useless  in 
this  emergency.  Had  it  been  a  matter  of  forty 
sous  —  but  a  louis  !  As  well  have  asked  him 
for  the  Venus  de  Milo,  and  had  done  with  it. 

So  it  was  that,  with  the  premonition  of 
Mimi's  disappointed  eyes  cutting  great  gaps 
in  his  tender  heart,  Pierre  had  four  times 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  quoted  to  himself 


34  CAFFIARD 

this  favorite  scrap  of  his  remarkable  philoso- 
phy, — "  Oh,  lala !  All  this  will  arrange  it- 
self ! "  and  four  times  had  paused,  in  the  act 
of  lighting  a  cigarette,  and  plunged  again  into 
the  depths  of  despondent  reverie.  As  he  was 
on  the  point  of  again  repeating  this  entirely 
futile  operation,  a  distant  clock  struck  six,  and 
Pierre,  remembering  that  Mimi  must  even  now 
be  waiting  for  him  at  the  west  door  of  St.  Ger- 
main-des-Pres,  clapped  on  his  cap,  and  sallied 
forth  into  the  gathering  twilight. 

It  was  aperitif  hour  at  the  Cafe  des  Deux 
Magots,  and  the  long,  leather-covered  benches 
against  the  windows,  and  the  double  row  of 
little  marble-topped  tables  in  front  were  rapidly 
filling,  as  Pierre  and  Mimi  took  their  places, 
and  ordered  two  Turins  a  1'eau.  A  group  of 
American  Beaux  Arts  men  at  their  right  were 
chattering  in  their  uncouth  tongue,  with  occa- 
sional scraps  of  Quartier  slang,  by  way  of  local 
color,  and  now  and  again  hailing  a  newcomer 
with  exclamations,  apparently  of  satisfaction, 
which  began  with  "  Hello  !  "  The  boulevard 
St.  Germain  was  alive  with  people,  walking 
past  with  the  admirable  lack  of  haste  which 
distinguishes  the  Parisian,  or  waiting,  in  pa- 


CAFFIARD  35 


tient,  voluble  groups,  for  a  chance  to  enter  the 
constantly  arriving  and  departing  trams  and 
omnibuses;  and  an  unending  succession  of 
open  cabs  filed  slowly  along  the  curb,  their 
drivers  scanning  the  terrasse  of  the  cafe  for  a 
possible  fare.  The  air  was  full  of  that  min- 
gled odor  of  wet  wood  pavements  and  horse- 
chestnut  blossoms,  which  is  the  outward,  in- 
visible sign  of  that  most  wonderful  of  inward 
and  spiritual  combinations  —  Paris  and  Spring  1 
And,  at  the  table  directly  behind  Pierre  and 
Mimi  sat  Caffiard. 

There  was  nothing  about  Caffiard  to  suggest 
a  deus  ex  machina,  or  anything  else,  for  that 
matter,  except  a  preposterously  corpulent  old 
gentleman  with  an  amiable  smile.  But  in  no- 
thing were  appearances  ever  more  deceitful 
than  in  Caffiard.  For  it  was  he,  with  his  enor- 
mous double  chin,  and  his  general  air  of  harm- 
less fatuity,  who  edited  the  little  colored  sheet 
entitled  La  Blague,  which  sent  half  Paris  into 
convulsions  of  merriment  every  Thursday  morn- 
ing, and  he  who  knew  every  caricaturist  in 
town,  and  was  beloved  of  them  all  for  the 
heartiness  of  his  appreciation  and  the  liberality 
of  his  payments.  In  the  first  regard  he  was 


36  CAFFIARD 


but  one  of  many  Parisian  editors :  but  in  the 
second  he  stood  without  a  peer.  Caran  d'Ache, 
Leandre,  Willette,  Forain,  Hermann  Paul,  Abel 
Faivre  —  they  rubbed  their  hands  when  they 
came  out  of  Caffiard's  private  office,  and  if  the 
day  chanced  to  be  Saturday,  there  was  some- 
thing in  their  hands  worth  rubbing.  A  fine 
example,  Caffiard  ! 

Mimi's  black  eyes  sparkled  like  a  squirrel's 
as  she  watched  Pierre  over  the  rim  of  her 
tumbler  of  vermouth.  She  was  far  from  being 
blind,  Mimi,  and  already,  though  they  had 
been  together  but  six  minutes,  she  had  noted 
that  unusual  little  pucker  between  his  eye- 
brows, that  sad  little  droop  at  the  corners  of 
his  merry  mouth.  She  told  herself  that  Pierre 
had  been  overworking  himself,  that  Pierre  was 
tired,  that  Pierre  needed  cheering  up.  So 
Mimi,  who  was  never  tired,  not  even  after  ten 
hours  in  Madame  FraichePs  millinery  estab- 
lishment, secretly  declared  war  upon  the  un- 
usual little  pucker  and  the  sad  little  droop. 

"  Voyons  done,  my  Pierrot !  "  she  said.  "  It 
is  not  a  funeral  to  which  we  go  to-morrow,  at 
least !  Thou  must  be  gay,  for  we  have  much  to 
talk  of,  thou  knowest.  One  dines  at  La  Boite  ? " 


CAFFIARD  37 


"  The  dinner  is  there,  such  as  it  is,"  replied 
Pierre  gloomily. 

"  What  it  is  now,  is  not  the  question,'*  said 
Mimi,  with  confidence,  "  but  what  I  make  of  it 
—  pas  ?  And  then  there  is  to-morrow  !  Oh, 
lala,  lalala !  What  a  pleasure  it  will  be,  if  only 
the  good  God  gives  us  beautiful  weather.  Dis, 
done,  great  thunder-cloud,  dost  thou  know  it, 
this  Poissy  ? " 

Pierre  had  begun  a  caricature  on  the  back 
of  the  wine-card,  glancing  now  and  again  at  his 
model,  an  old  man  selling  newspapers  on  the 
curb.  He  shook  his  head  without  replying. 

"  Eh,  b'en,  my  little  one,  thou  mayest  believe 
me  that  it  is  of  all  places  the  most  beautiful ! 
One  eats  at  the  Esturgeon,  on  the  Seine,  —  but 
on  the  Seine,  with  the  water  quite  near,  like 
that  chair.  He  names  himself  Jarry,  the  pro- 
prietor, and  it  is  a  good  type  —  fat  and  hand- 
some. I  adore  him  !  Art  thou  jealous,  species 
of  thinness  of  a  hundred  nails  ?  B'en,  after- 
wards, one  takes  a  boat,  and  goes,  softly,  softly, 
down  the  little  arm  of  the  Seine,  and  creeps 
under  the  willows,  and,  perhaps,  fishes.  But 
no,  for  it  is  the  closed  season.  But  one  sings, 
eh  ?  What  does  one  sing  ?  Voyons !  " 


38  CAFFIARD 


She  bent  forward,  and,  in  a  little  voice,  like 
an  elf's,  very  thin  and  sweet,  hummed  a  snatch 
of  a  song  they  both  knew. 

"  (Test  votre  ami  Pierrot  qui  vient  vous  voir : 
Bonsoir,  madame  la  lune  ! 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  as  Pierre  con- 
tinued his  sketch  in  silence,  "  and  then,  one 
disembarks  at  Villennes  and  has  a  Turin  under 
the  arbors  of  Bodin.  Another  handsome  type, 
Bodin  !  Flut !  What  a  man  !  " 

Mimi  paused  suddenly,  and  searched  his 
cloudy  face  with  her  earnest,  tender  little  eyes. 

"  Pierrot,"  she  said,  softly,  "  what  hast  thou? 
Thou  art  not  angry  with  thy  gosseline  ?  " 

Pierre  surveyed  the  outline  of  the  newspaper 
vender  thoughtfully,  touched  it,  here  and  there, 
with  his  pencil-point,  squinted,  and  then  pushed 
the  paper  toward  the  girl. 

"  Not  bad,"  he  said,  replacing  his  pencil  in 
his  pocket. 

But  Mimi  had  no  eyes  for  the  caricature, 
and  merely  flicked  the  wine-card  to  the  ground. 

"  Pierrot  "  —  she  repeated. 

Vauquelin  plunged  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  looked  at  her. 


CAFFIARD  39 

"  Well,  then,"  he  announced,  almost  brutally, 
"  we  do  not  go  to-morrow." 

"Pierre/" 

It  was  going  to  be  much  worse  than  he  had 
supposed,  this  little  tragedy.  Bon  Dieu,  how 
pretty  she  was,  with  her  startled,  hurt  eyes, 
already  filling  with  tears,  and  her  parted  lips, 
and  her  little  white  hand,  that  had  flashed  up 
to  her  cheek  at  his  words  !  Oh,  much  worse 
than  he  had  supposed  !  But  she  must  be  told  : 
there  was  nothing  but  that.  So  Pierre  put  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  and  his  chin  in  his  hands, 
and  brought  his  face  close  to  hers. 

"  Voyons  ! "  he  explained,  "  thou  dost  not 
believe  me  angry  !  Mais  non,  mais  non  !  But 
listen.  It  is  I  who  am  the  next  to  the  last  of 
idiots,  since  I  have  never  a  sou  in  pocket, 
never !  And  the  imbecile  restaurateur,  whose 
wife  I  have  been  painting,  will  not  return  until 
to-morrow,  and  so  I  am  not  paid.  Voila  ! " 

He  placed  his  five-franc  piece  upon  the  table, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  One  full  moon  !  "  he  said,  and  piled  the 
three  sous  upon  it.  "  And  three  soldiers.  As 
I  sit  here,  that  is  all,  until  to-morrow  night. 
We  cannot  go  !  " 


40  CAFFIARD 


Brave  little  Mimi !  Already  she  was  wink- 
ing back  her  tears,  and  smiling. 

"  But  that  —  that  is  nothing  !  "  she  answered. 
"  I  do  not  care  to  go.  No  —  but  truly  !  Look ! 
We  shall  spend  the  day  in  the  studio,  and  break- 
fast on  the  balcony,  and  pretend  the  rue  Vis- 
conti  is  the  Seine." 

"  I  am  an  empty  siphon  !  "  said  Pierre,  yield- 
ing to  desperation. 

"  Non  !  "  said  Mimi  firmly. 

"  I  am  a  pierced  basket,  a  box  of  matches  !  " 

"  Non  !  Non  !  "  said  Mimi,  with  tremendous 
earnestness.  "Thou  art  Pierrot,  and  I  love 
thee  !  Let  us  say  no  more.  I  shall  go  back 
and  prepare  the  dinner,  and  thou  shalt  remain 
and  drink  a  Pernod.  It  will  give  thee  heart. 
But  follow  quickly.  Give  me  the  key." 

She  laid  her  wide-spread  hand  on  his,  palm 
upward,  like  a  little  pink  starfish. 

"  We  go  together,  and  I  adore  thee ! "  said 
Pierre,  and  kissed  her  in  the  sight  of  all  men, 
and  was  not  ashamed. 

Caffiard  leaned  forward,  picked  up  the  fallen 
wine-card,  pretended  to  consult  it,  and  ponder- 
ously arose.  As  Pierre  was  turning  the  key 


CAFFIARD  41 

in  the  door  of  the  little  apartment,  they  heard 
a  sound  of  heavy  breathing,  and  the  dcus  ex 
machina  came  lumbering  up  the  winding  stair. 

"  Monsieur  is  seeking  some  one  ?  "  asked  the 
painter  politely. 

There  was  no  breath  left  in  Caffiard.  He 
was  only  able,  by  way  of  reply,  to  point  at  the 
top  button  of  Pierre's  coat,  and  nod  helplessly  : 
then,  as  Mimi  ran  ahead  to  light  the  gas,  he 
labored  along  the  corridor,  staggered  through 
the  curtained  doorway,  stumbled  over  a  rattan 
stool,  was  rescued  by  Pierre,  and,  finally,  estab- 
lished upon  the  divan,  very  red  and  gasping. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  Pierre  and 
Mimi  busying  themselves  in  putting  the  studio 
to  rights,  with  an  instinctive  courtesy  which 
took  no  notice  of  their  visitor's  snorts  and 
wheezes ;  and  Caffiard  taking  note  of  his  sur- 
roundings with  his  round,  blinking  eyes.  Oppo- 
site him,  against  the  wall,  reposed  the  portrait 
of  the  restaurateur's  wife,  as  dry  and  pasty  as 
a  stale  cream  cheese  upon  the  point  of  crum- 
bling, and  on  an  easel  was  another  —  that  of 
Monsieur  Pantin,  the .  rich  shirt-maker  of  the 
boulevard  St.  Germain  —  on  which  Pierre  was 
at  work.  A  veritable  atrocity  this,  with  a  green 


42  CAFFIARD 

background  which  trespassed  upon  Monsieur 
Pantin's  hair,  and  a  featureless  face,  gaunt  and 
haggard  with  yellow  and  purple  undertones. 
There  was  nothing  in  either  picture  to  refute 
one's  natural  suspicion  that  soap  had  been  the 
medium  employed.  Caffiard  blinked  harder 
still  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  portraits,  and 
he  secretly  consulted  the  crumpled  wine-card 
in  his  hand.  Then  he  seemed  to  recover  his 
breath  by  means  of  a  profound  sigh. 

"  Monsieur  makes  caricatures  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,"  said  Pierre,  "  at  times,  and 
for  amusement  only.  I  am  a  portraitist."  And 
he  pointed  proudly  to  the  picture  against  the 
wall. 

For  they  are  all  alike,  these  painters  — 
proudest  of  what  they  do  least  well ! 

"Ah!  Then,"  said  Caffiard,  with  an  air  of 
resignation,  "  I  must  ask  monsieur's  pardon, 
and  descend.  I  am  not  interested  in  portraits. 
When  it  comes  to  caricatures  "  — 

"  They  are  well  enough  in  their  way,"  put  in 
Pierre,  "  but  as  a  serious  affair  —  to  sell,  for 
instance  —  well,  monsieur  comprehends  that 
one  does  not  debauch  one's  art !  " 

Oh,  yes,  they  are  all  alike,  these  painters  ! 


CAFFIARD  43 


"  What  is  serious,  what  is  not  serious  ? " 
answered  Caffiard.  "  It  is  all  a  matter  of 
opinion.  One  prefers  to  have  his  painting 
glued  to  the  wall  of  the  Salon,  next  the  ceiling, 
another  to  have  his  drawing  on  the  front  page 
of  La  Blague." 

"  Oh,  naturally  La  Blague,"  protested  Pierre. 

"  I  am  its  editor,"  said  Caffiard  superbly. 

"Eight"  exclaimed  Pierre.  For  Mimi  had 
cruelly  pinched  his  arm.  Before  the  sting  had 
passed,  she  was  seated  at  Caffiard's  side,  tug- 
ging at  the  strings  of  a  great  portfolio. 

"Are  they  imbeciles,  these  painters,  mon- 
sieur ?  "  she  was  saying.  "  Now  you  shall  see. 
This  great  baby  is  marvelous,  but  marvelous, 
with  his  caricatures.  Not  Leandre  himself  — 
it  is  I  who  assure  you,  monsieur !  —  and  to 
hear  him,  one  would  think  —  but  thou  tirest 
me,  Pierrot !  —  With  his  portraits  !  No,  it  is 
too  much ! " 

She  spread  the  portfolio  wide,  and  began  to 
shuffle  through  the  drawings  it  contained. 

Caffiard's  eyes  glistened  as  he  saw  them. 
Even  in  her  enthusiasm,  Mimi  had  not  over- 
shot the  mark.  They  were  marvelous  indeed, 
these  caricatures,  mere  outlines  for  the  most 


44  CAFFIARD 


part,  with  a  dot,  here  and  there,  of  red,  or  a 
little  streak  of  green,  which  lent  them  a  curi- 
ous, unusual  charm.  The  subjects  were  legion. 
Here  was  Loubet,  with  a  great  band  of  crimson 
across  his  shirt  bosom,  here  Waldeck-Rousseau, 
with  eyes  as  round  and  prominent  as  agate  mar- 
bles, or  Yvette,  with  a  nose  on  which  one  might 
have  hung  an  overcoat,  or  Chamberlain,  all 
monocle,  or  Wilhelmina,  growing  out  of  a  tu- 
lip's heart,  and  as  pretty  as  an  old  print,  with 
her  tight-fitting  Dutch  cap  and  broidered  bod- 
ice. And  then  a  host  of  types  —  cochers,  gri- 
settes,  flower  women,  camelots,  Heaven  knows 
what  not !  —  the  products  of  half  a  hundred 
idle  hours,  wherein  great-hearted,  foolish  Pierre 
had  builded  better  than  he  knew  ! 

Caffiard  selected  five  at  random,  and  then, 
from  a  waistcoat  pocket  that  clung  as  closely 
to  his  round  figure  as  if  it  had  been  glued 
thereto,  produced  a  hundred-franc  note. 

"  I  must  have  these  for  La  Blague,  monsieur," 
he  said.  "  Bring  me  two  caricatures  a  week  at 
my  office  in  the  rue  St.  Joseph,  and  you  shall 
be  paid  at  the  same  rate.  It  is  not  much,  to  be 
sure.  But  you  will  have  ample  time  left  for 
your  —  for  your  portrait-painting,  monsieur  !  " 


CAFFIARD  45 


For  a  moment  the  words  of  Caffiard  affected 
Pierre  and  Mimi  as  the  stairs  had  affected  Caf- 
fiard. They  stared  at  him,  opening  and  shut- 
ting their  mouths  and  gasping,  like  fish  newly 
landed.  Then,  suddenly,  animated  by  a  com- 
mon impulse,  they  rushed  into  each  other's 
arms,  and  set  out,  around  the  studio,  in  a  mad 
waltz,  which  presently  resolved  itself  into  an 
impromptu  can-can,  with  Mimi  skipping  like  a 
fairy,  and  Pierre  singing  :  "  Hi !  Hi!!  Hi ! !  !  " 
and  snapping  at  her  flying  feet  with  a  red-bor- 
dered handkerchief.  After  this  Mimi  kissed 
Caffiard  twice :  once  on  the  top  of  his  bald 
head,  and  once  on  the  end  of  his  stubby  nose. 
It  was  like  being  brushed  by  the  floating  down 
of  a  dandelion.  And,  finally,  nothing  would 
do  but  that  he  must  accompany  them  upon  the 
morrow;  and  she  explained  to  him  in  detail 
the  plan  which  had  so  nearly  fallen  through, 
and  the  deus  ex  machina  did  not  betray  by  so 
much  as  a  wink  that  he  had  heard  the  entire 
story  only  half  an  hour  before. 

But,  in  the  end,  he  protested.  But  she  was 
insane,  the  little  one,  completely !  Had  he 
then  the  air  of  one  who  gave  himself  into  those 
boats  there,  name  of  a  pipe?  But  let  us  be 


46  CAFFIARD 

reasonable,  voyons !  He  was  not  young  like 
Pierre  and  Mimi  —  one  comprehended  that 
these  holidays  did  not  recommence  when  one 
was  sixty.  What  should  he  do,  he  demanded 
of  them,  trailing  along,  as  one  might  say,  he 
and  his  odious  fatness  ?  Ah,  non  !  For  la  belle 
jeunesse  was  la  belle  jeunesse,  there  was  no 
means  of  denying  it,  and  it  was  not  for  a  spe- 
cies of  dried  sponge  to  be  giving  itself  the 
airs  of  a  fresh  flower.  "  But  no  !  But  no !  " 
said  Caffiard,  striving  to  rise  from  the  divan. 
"  In  the  morning  I  have  my  article  to  do  for 
the  Figaro,  and  I  am  going  with  Caran  to 
Longchamp,  en  auto,  for  the  races  in  the  after- 
noon. But  no  !  But  no ! " 

It  was  plain  that  Caffiard  had  known  Mimi 
no  more  than  half  an  hour.  One  never  said, 
"  But  no !  But  no  ! "  to  Mimi,  unless  it  was 
for  the  express  purpose  of  having  one's  mouth 
covered  by  the  softest  little  pink  palm  to  be 
found  between  the  Seine  and  the  Observatoire, 
—  which,  to  do  him  justice,  Caffiard  was  quite 
capable  of  scheming  to  bring  about,  if  only  he 
had  known  !  He  had  accepted  the  little  dande- 
lion-down kisses  in  a  spirit  of  philosophy,  know- 
ing well  that  they  were  given  not  for  his  sake, 


CAFFIARD  47 


but  for  Pierre's.  But  now  his  protests  came 
to  an  abrupt  termination,  for  Mimi  suddenly 
seated  herself  on  his  lap,  and  put  one  arm 
around  his  neck. 

It  was  nothing  short  of  an  achievement,  this. 
Even  Caffiard  himself  had  not  imagined  that 
such  a  thing  as  his  lap  was  still  extant.  Yet 
here  was  Mimi,  actually  installed  thereon,  with 
her  cheek  pressed  against  his,  and  her  breath, 
which  was  like  clover,  stirring  the  ends  of  his 
moustache.  But  she  was  smiling  at  Pierre, 
the  witch !  Caffiard  could  see  it  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye. 

"  Mais  non  !  "  he  repeated,  but  more  feebly. 

"  Mais  non  !  Mais  non  !  Mais  non  !  "  mocked 
Mimi.  "  Great  farceur !  Will  you  listen,  at 
least  ?  Eh  b'en,  voila  !  Here  is  my  opinion. 
As  to  insanity,  if  for  any  one  to  propose  a  day 
in  the  country  is  insanity,  well  then,  yes,  —  I 
am  insane  !  Soit !  And,  again,  if  you  wish  to 
appear  serious,  —  in  Paris,  that  is  to  say  — 
soit,  egalement !  But  when  you  speak  of  odious 
fatness,  you  are  a  type  of  monsieur  extremely 
low  of  ceiling,  do  you  know  !  Moreover,  you 
are  going.  Voila !  It  is  finished.  As  for 
Caran,  let  him  go  his  way  and  draw  his  cari- 


48  CAFFIARD 

catures  —  though  they  are  not  like  Pierre's,  all 
the  world  knows!  —  and,  without  doubt,  his 
auto  will  refuse  to  move  beyond  the  porte 
Dauphine,  yes,  and  blow  up,  bon  Dieu !  when 
he  is  in  the  act  of  mending  it.  One  knows 
these  boxes  of  vapors,  what  they  do.  And  as 
for  the  Figaro,  b'en,  flut !  Evidently  it  will  not 
cease  to  exist  for  lack  of  your  article  —  eh, 
1'ami  ?  And  it  is  Mimi  who  asks  you,  —  Mimi, 
do  you  understand,  who  invites  you  to  her  fete. 
And  you  would  refuse  her  —  toil" 

"But  no!  But  no!"  said  Caffiard  hur- 
riedly. And  meant  it. 

At  this  point  Pierre  wrapped  five  two-sou 
pieces  in  a  bit  of  paper,  and  tossed  them,  out 
of  a  little  window  across  the  hallway,  to  a 
street-singer  whimpering  in  the  court  below. 
Pierre  said  that  they  weighed  down  his  pockets. 
They  were  in  the  way,  the  clumsy  doublins, 
said  wonderful,  spendthrift  Pierre  ! 

For  the  wide  sky  of  the  Quartier  is  forever 
dotted  with  little  clouds,  scudding,  scudding, 
all  day  long.  And  when  one  of  these  passes 
across  the  sun,  there  is  a  sudden  chill  in  the 
air,  and  one  walks  for  a  time  in  shadow,  though 
the  comrade  over  there,  across  the  way,  is 


CAFFIARD  49 

still  in  the  warm  and  golden  glow.  But  when 
the  sun  has  shouldered  the  little  cloud  aside 
again,  ah,  that  is  when  life  is  good  to  live,  and 
goes  gayly,  to  the  tinkle  of  glasses  and  the 
ripple  of  laughter,  and  the  ring  of  silver  bits. 
And  when  the  street-singer  in  the  court  receives 
upon  his  head  a  little  parcel  of  coppers  that 
are  too  heavy  for  the  pocket,  and  smiles  to 
himself,  who  knows  but  what  he  understands  ? 

For  what  is  also  true  of  the  Quartier  is  this 
—  that,  in  sunshine  or  shadow,  one  finds  a  soft 
little  hand  clasping  his,  firm,  warm,  encour- 
aging and  kindly,  and  hears  a  gay  little  voice 
that,  in  foul  weather,  chatters  of  the  bright 
hours  which  it  is  so  sweet  to  remember,  and, 
in  fair,  says  never  a  word  of  the  storms  which 
it  is  so  easy  to  forget ! 

The  veriest  bat  might  have  foreseen  the  end, 
when  once  Mimi  had  put  her  arm  around  the 
neck  of  CafHard.  Before  the  deus  ex  machina 
knew  what  he  was  about,  he  found  his  army  of 
objections  routed,  horse,  foot,  and  dragoons, 
and  had  promised  to  be  at  the  gare  St.  Lazare 
at  eleven  the  following  morning. 

And  what  a  morning  it  was  !  Surely  the 
bon  Dieu  must  have  loved  Mimi  an  atom  better 


50  CAFFIARD 


than  other  mortals,  for  in  the  blue-black  cruci- 
ble of  the  night  he  fashioned  a  day  as  clear 
and  glowing  as  a  great  jewel,  and  set  it,  blaz- 
ing with  warm  light  and  vivid  color,  foremost 
in  the  diadem  of  the  year.  And  it  was  some- 
thing to  see  Mimi  at  the  carriage  window,  with 
Pierre  at  her  side  and  her  left  hand  in  his,  and 
in  her  right  a  huge  bouquet  —  Caffiard's  con- 
tribution —  while  the  deus  ex  machina  himself, 
breathing  like  a  happy  hippopotamus,  beamed 
upon  the  pair  from  the  opposite  corner.  So 
the  train  slipped  past  the  fortifications,  swung 
through  a  trim  suburb,  slid  smoothly  out  into 
the  open  country.  It  was  a  Wednesday,  and 
there  was  no  holiday  crowd  to  incommode 
them.  They  had  the  compartment  to  them- 
selves ;  and  the  half  hour  flew  like  six  min- 
utes, said  Mimi,  when  at  last  they  came  to  a 
shuddering  standstill,  and  two  guards  hastened 
along  the  platform  in  opposite  directions,  one 
droning  "  Poiss-y-y-y-y !  "  and  the  other  shouting 
"  Poiss  '  I  Poiss  '  I  Poiss  ' !  "  as  if  he  had  been 
sneezing.  It  was  an  undertaking  to  get  Caf- 
fiard  out  of  the  carriage,  just  as  it  had  been  to 
get  him  in.  But  finally  it  was  accomplished, 
a  whistle  trilled  from  somewhere  as  if  it  had 


CAFFIARD  51 

been  a  bird,  another  wailed  like  a  stepped-on 
kitten,  the  locomotive  squealed  triumphantly, 
and  the  next  minute  the  trio  were  alone  in 
their  glory. 

It  was  a  day  that  Caffiard  never  forgot. 
They  breakfasted  at  once,  so  as  to  have  a 
longer  afternoon.  Mimi  was  guide  and  com- 
mand er-in-chief,  as  having  been  to  the  Estur- 
geon  before,  so  the  table  was  set  upon  the 
terrasse  overlooking  the  Seine,  and  there  were 
radishes,  and  little  individual  omelettes,  and  a 
famous  matelote,  which  Monsieur  Jarry  himself 
served  with  the  air  of  a  Lucullus,  and,  finally, 
a  great  dish  of  quatre  saisons,  and,  for  each  of 
the  party,  a  squat  brown  pot  of  fresh  cream. 
And,  moreover,  no  ordinaire,  but  St.  Emilion, 
if  you  please,  with  a  tin-foil  cap  which  had  to 
be  removed  before  one  could  draw  the  cork, 
and  a  bottle  of  Source  Badoit  as  well.  And 
Caffiard,  who  had  dined  with  the  Russian  Am- 
bassador on  Monday  and  breakfasted  with  the 
Nuncio  on  Tuesday,  and  been  egregiously  dis- 
pleased with  the  fare  in  both  instances,  con- 
sumed an  unprecedented  quantity  of  matelote, 
and  went  back  to  radishes  after  he  had  eaten 
his  strawberries  and  cream :  while,  to  cap  the 


52  CAFFIARD 

climax,  Pierre  paid  the  addition  with  a  louis,  — 
and  gave  all  the  change  as  a  tip  !  But  it  was 
unheard-of ! 

Afterwards  they  engaged  a  boat,  and,  with 
much  alarm  on  the  part  of  Mimi,  and  satirical 
comment  from  Caffiard,  and  severe  admoni- 
tions to  prudence  by  Pierre,  pushed  out  into 
the  stream  and  headed  for  Villennes,  to  the 
enormous  edification  of  three  small  boys,  who 
hung  precariously  over  the  railing  of  the  ter- 
race above  them,  and  called  Caffiard  a  captive 
balloon. 

They  made  the  three  kilometres  at  a  snail's 
pace,  allowing  the  boat  to  drift  with  the  cur- 
rent for  an  hour  at  a  time,  and,  now  and  again 
creeping  in  under  the  willows  at  the  water's 
edge  until  they  were  wholly  hidden  from  view, 
and  the  voice  of  Mimi  singing  was  as  that 
of  some  river  nixie  invisible  to  mortal  eyes. 
She  sang  "  Bonsoir,  Madame  la  Lune,"  so 
sweetly  and  so  sadly  that  Caffiard  was  moved 
to  tears.  It  was  her  favorite  song,  because  — 
oh,  because  it  was  about  Pierrot!  And  her 
own  Pierrot  responded  with  a  gay  soldier  ballad, 
a  chanson  de  route  which  he  had  picked  up  at 
the  Noctambules  ;  and  even  Caffiard  sang  —  a 


CAFFIARD  53 


ridiculous  ditty  it  was,  which  scored  the  Eng- 
lish and  went  to  a  rollicking  air.  They  all 
shouted  the  refrain,  convulsed  with  merriment 
at  the  drollery  of  the  sound  :  — 

"  Qu'est  ce  qui  quitte  ses  ptre  et  mtrc 

Afin  de  s'en  alter 

S'faire  taper  dans  le  nez  ? 
Cest  le  soldat  d' Angle  ter  re  ! 

Dou-gle-di-gle-dum  ! 
Avec  les  ba-a-a-alles  dum-dum  !  " 

Caffiard  was  to  leave  them  at  Villennes  after 
they  should  have  taken  their  aperitifs.  They 
protested,  stormed  at  him,  scolded  and  cajoled 
by  turns,  and  called  him  a  score  of  fantastic 
names  —  for  by  this  time  they  knew  him  inti- 
mately —  as  they  sat  in  Monsieur  Bodin's 
arbor  and  sipped  amer-menthe,  but  all  in  vain. 
Pierre  had  Mimi's  hand,  as  always,  and  he  had 
kissed  her  a  half-hundred  times  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon.  Mimi  had  a  way  of  shaking 
her  hair  out  of  her  eyes  with  a  curious  little 
backward  jerk  of  her  head  when  Pierre  kissed 
her,  and  then  looking  at  him  seriously,  seri- 
ously, but  smiling  when  he  caught  her  at  it. 
CafBard  liked  that.  And  Pierre  had  a  trick  of 
turning,  as  if  to  ask  Mimi's  opinion,  or  divine 


54  CAFFIARD 

even  her  unspoken  wishes  whenever  a  question 
came  up  for  decision  —  a  choice  of  food  or 
drink,  or  direction,  or  what-not.  And  Caf- 
fiard  liked  that. 

He  looked  across  the  table  at  them  now, 
dreamily,  through  his  cigarette  smoke. 

"Pierrot,"  he  said,  after  he  had  persuaded 
them  to  let  him  depart  in  peace  when  the  train 
should  be  due,  —  "Pierrot.  Yes,  that  is  it. 
You,  with  your  garret,  and  your  painting,  and 
your  songs,  and  your  black,  black  sadness  at 
one  moment,  and  your  laughter  the  next,  and, 
above  all,  your  Pierrette,  your  bon-bon  of  a 
Pierrette  :  —  you  are  Pierrot,  the  spirit  of  Paris 
in  powder  and  white  muslin !  Eigho !  my 
children,  what  a  thing  it  is,  la  belle  jeunesse ! 
Tiens  !  you  have  given  me  a  taste  of  it  to-day, 
and  I  thank  you.  I  thought  I  had  forgotten. 
But  no,  one  never  forgets.  It  all  comes  back, 
—  youth,  and  strength,  and  beauty,  love,  and 
music,  and  laughter,  —  but  only  like  a  breath 
upon  a  mirror,  my  children,  only  like  a  wind- 
ripple  on  a  pool ;  for  I  am  an  old  man." 

He  paused,  looking  up  at  the  vine-leaves 
on  the  trellis-roof,  and  murmured  a  few  words 
of  Mimi's  song  :  — 


CAFFIARD  55 


"  Pierrette  en  songe  va  venir  me  voir : 
Bonsoir,  madame  la  lune  !  " 

Then  his  eyes  came  back  to  her  face. 

"  I  must  be  off,"  he  said.  "  Why,  what  hast 
thou,  little  one  ?  There  are  tears  in  those  two 
stars ! " 

"  C'est  vrai  ? "  asked  Mimi,  smiling  at  him 
and  then  at  Pierre,  and  brushing  her  hand 
across  her  eyes,  "  c'est  vrai  ?  Well  then,  they 
are  gone  as  quickly  as  they  came.  Voila ! 
Without  his  tears  Pierrot  is  not  Pierrot,  and 
without  Pierrot "  — 

She  turned  to  Pierre  suddenly,  and  buried 
her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"  ye  faime!"  she  whispered.  "  Je  taime!" 


The  Next  Cor- 
ner 


ANTHONY  CAZEBY  was  a  man  whom 
the  felicitous  combination  of  an  ad- 
venturous disposition,  sufficient  ready 
money,  and  a  magnificent  constitution  had  in- 
troduced to  many  and  various  sensations,  but 
he  was  conscious  that,  so  far  as  intensity  went, 
no  one  of  them  all  had  approached  for  a  mo- 
ment that  with  which  he  emerged  from  the 
doorway  of  the  Automobile  Club,  and,  wink- 
ing at  the  sting  of  the  keen  winter  air,  looked 
out  across  the  place  de  la  Concorde,  with  its 
globes  of  light,  swung,  like  huge  pearls  on  in- 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  57 

visible  strings,  across  the  haze  of  the  January 
midnight.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  he 
would  allow  his  faculties  to  obtain  a  full  and 
final  grasp  of  his  situation,  and  motioned  aside 
the  trim  little  club  chasseur  who  stood  before 
him,  with  one  cotton-gloved  hand  stretched  out 
expectantly  for  a  supposititious  carriage-check. 
"  Va,  mon  petit,  je  vais  a  pied !  " 
Afoot !  Cazeby  smiled  to  himself  at  the 
tone  of  sudden  caprice  which  rang  in  his  voice, 
and,  turning  his  fur  collar  high  up  about  his 
ears,  swung  off  rapidly  toward  the  Cours  la 
Reine.  After  all,  the  avenue  d'Eylau  was  only 
an  agreeable  stroll's  length  distant.  Why  not 
go  home  afoot  ?  But  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
why  go  home  at  all  ?  As  this  thought  leaped 
suddenly  at  Cazeby's  throat  out  of  the  void  of 
the  great  unpremeditated,  he  caught  his  breath, 
stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  driveway, 
and  then  went  on  more  slowly,  thinking  hard. 

It  had  been  that  rarissima  avis  of  social  life, 
even  in  Paris,  a  perfect  dinner.  Cazeby  had 
found  himself  wondering,  at  more  than  one 
stage  of  its  smooth  and  imposing  progress,  how 
the  Flints  could  afford  to  do  it.  But  on  each 
recurrence  of  the  thought  he  dismissed  it  with 


58  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

a  little  frown  of  vexation.  If  there  was  one 
thing  more  than  another  upon  which  Cazeby 
prided  himself,  it  was  originality  of  thought, 
word,  and  deed,  and  he  was  annoyed  to  find 
himself,  even  momentarily,  on  a  mental  level 
with  the  gossips  of  the  American  and  English 
colonies,  whose  time  is  equally  divided  between 
wondering  how  the  Choses  can  afford  to  do 
what  they  do,  and  why  the  Machins  cannot 
afford  to  do  what  they  leave  undone. 

People  had  said  many  things  of  Hartley 
Flint,  and  still  more  of  his  wife,  but  no  one 
had  ever  had  the  ignorance  or  the  perversity 
to  accuse  them  of  inefficiency  in  the  matter  of 
a  dinner.  Moreover,  on  this  particular  occa- 
sion, they  were  returning  the  hospitality  of  the 
Baroness  Klemftt,  who  had,  at  the  close  of 
the  Exposition,  impressed  into  her  service  the 
chef  of  the  Roumanian  restaurant,  and  whose 
dinners  were,  in  consequence,  the  wonder  and 
despair  of  four  foreign  colonies.  After  her 
latest  exploit  Hartley  Flint  had  remarked  to 
his  wife  that  it  was  "up  to  them  to  make 
good,"  which,  being  interpreted,  was  to  say 
that  it  was  at  once  his  duty  and  his  intention 
to  repay  the  Baroness  in  her  own  sterling  coin. 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  59 

The  fact  that  the  men  of  the  party  afterwards 
commended  Hartley's  choice  of  wines,  and  that 
the  women  expressed  the  opinion  that  "  Kate 
Flint  looked  really  pretty  !  "  would  seem  to  be 
proof  positive  that  the  operation  of  "  making 
good  "  had  been  an  unqualified  success. 

Now,  Cazeby  was  wondering  whether  he 
had  actually  enjoyed  it  all.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  seemed  to  him  incredible,  and 
yet  he  could  not  recall  a  qualm  of  uneasiness 
from  the  moment  when  the  maitre  d'hotel  had 
thrown  open  the  doors  of  the  private  dining 
room,  until  the  Baroness  had  smiled  at  her 
hostess  out  of  a  cloud  of  old  Valenciennes, 
and  said,  "  Now  there  are  two  of  us  who  give 
impeccable  dinners,  Madame  Flint."  Even 
now,  even  facing  his  last  ditch,  Cazeby  was 
conscious  of  a  little  thrill  of  self-satisfaction. 
He  had  said  the  score  of  clever  things  which 
each  of  his  many  hostesses  expected  of  him, 
and  had  told  with  great  effect  his  story  of  the 
little  German  florist,  which  had  grown,  that 
season,  under  the  persuasive  encouragement 
of  society's  applause,  from  a  brief  anecdote 
into  a  veritable  achievement  of  Teutonic  dia- 
lect. Also,  he  had  worn  a  forty  franc  orchid, 


60  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

and  had  left  it  in  his  coffee-cup  because  it  had 
begun  to  wilt.  In  brief,  he  had  been  Anthony 
Cazeby  at  his  extraordinary  best,  a  mixture 
of  brilliancy  and  eccentricity,  without  which, 
as  Mrs.  Flint  was  wont  to  say,  no  dinner  was 
complete. 

But  the  sublime  arid  the  ridiculous  are  not 
the  only  contrasting  conditions  that  lie  no 
further  than  a  step  apart,  and  Cazeby  was 
painfully  conscious  of  having,  in  the  past  five 
minutes,  crossed  the  short  interval  which  di- 
vides gay  from  grave.  Reduced  to  its  lowest 
terms,  his  situation  lay  in  his  words  to  the 
little  chasseur.  With  the  odor  of  the  rarest 
orchid  to  be  found  in  Vaillant-Rozeau's  whole 
establishment  yet  clinging  to  his  lapel,  Anthony 
Cazeby  was  going  home  on  foot  because  the 
fare  from  the  Concorde  to  the  avenue  d'Eylau 
was  one  franc  fifty,  and  one  franc  fifty  pre- 
cisely ninety  centimes  more  than  he  possessed 
in  the  world.  For  a  moment  he  straightened 
himself,  threw  back  his  head,  and  looked  up 
at  the  dull  saffron  of  the  low-hanging  sky,  in  an 
attempt  to  realize  this  astounding  fact,  and  then 
went  back  to  his  thinking. 

Well,  it  was  not  surprising.     The  life  of  a 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  61 

popular  young  diplomat  with  extravagant  tastes 
is  not  conducive  to  economy,  and  the  forty 
thousand  dollars  which  had  come  to  Cazeby 
at  the  beginning  of  his  twenty-eighth  year  had 
proved  but  a  bad  second  best  in  the  struggle 
with  Parisian  gayety.  His  bibelots,  his  servants, 
Auteuil,  Longchamp,  his  baccarat  at  the  Prince 
de  Treville's,  a  dancer  at  the  Folies-Marigny, 
Monte  Carlo,  Aix,  Trouville,  —  they  had  all 
had  their  share,  and  now  the  piper  was  waiting 
to  be  paid  and  the  exchequer  was  empty.  It 
was  an  old  story.  Other  men  of  his  acquaint- 
ance had  done  the  same,  but  they  had  had 
some  final  resource.  The  trouble  was,  as 
Cazeby  had  already  noted,  that,  in  his  case, 
the  final  resource  was  not,  as  in  theirs,  pecuni- 
ary. Quite  on  the  contrary,  it  was  a  tidy  little 
weapon,  of  Smith  and  Wesson  make,  which  lay 
in  the  upper  right  hand  drawer  of  his  marque- 
terie  desk.  He  had  looked  long  at  it  that  same 
afternoon,  with  all  his  worldly  wealth,  in  the 
shape  of  forty-two  francs  sixty,  spread  out  be- 
side it.  That  was  before  he  had  taken  a  fiacre 
to  Vaillant-Rozeau's. 

At  the  very  moment  when  Cazeby  was  con- 
templating these  doubtful  assets,  a  grim  old 


62  THE  NEXT  CORNER 


gentleman  was  seated  at  another  desk,  three 
thousand  miles  away,  engaged  upon  a  calcu- 
lation of  the  monthly  profits  derived  from  a 
wholesale  leather  business.  But  Cazeby  pere 
was  one  of  the  hopeless  persons  who  believe 
in  economy.  He  was  of  the  perverted  opinion 
,  that  money  hardly  come  by  should  be  thought- 
fully spent,  or,  preferably,  invested  in  govern- 
ment bonds,  and  he  had  violent  prejudices 
against  "industrials,"  games  of  chance,  and 
young  men  who  preferred  the  gayety  of  a  for- 
eign capital  to  the  atmosphere  of  "  the  Swamp." 
Also  he  was  very  rich.  But  Anthony  had  long 
since  ceased  to  regard  his  father  as  anything 
more  than  a  chance  relation.  He  could  have 
told  what  would  be  the  result  of  a  frank  con- 
fession of  his  extremity  as  accurately  as  if  the 
avowal  had  been  already  made.  There  would 
have  been  some  brief  reference  to  the  sowing 
of  oats  and  their  reaping,  to  the  making  of  a 
metaphorical  bed  and  the  inevitable  occupancy 
thereof,  and  to  other  proverbial  illustrations 
which,  in  a  financial  sense,  are  more  orna- 
mental than  useful,  —  and  nothing  more.  The 
essential  spark  of  sympathy  had  been  lacking 
between  these  two  since  the  moment  when  the 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  63 


most  eminent  physician  in  New  York  had  said, 
"  It  is  a  boy,  sir,  —  but  —  we  cannot  hope  to 
save  the  mother."  The  fault  may  have  lain 
on  the  one  side,  or  the  other,  or  on  both,  or  on 
neither ;  but  certain  it  is  that  to  Anthony's 
imagination  Cazeby  senior  had  never  appealed 
in  the  light  of  a  final  resource. 

Somehow,  in  none  of  his  'calculations  had 
the  idea  of  invoking  assistance  ever  played  a 
part.  Naturally,  as  a  reasoning  being,  he  had 
foreseen  the  present  crisis  for  some  months, 
but  at  the  time  when  the  inevitable  catastrophe 
first  became  clear  to  him  it  was  already  too  late 
to  regain  his  balance,  since  the  remainder  of 
his  inheritance  was  so  pitifully  small  that  any 
idea  of  retrieving  his  fortunes  through  its  in- 
strumentality was  simply  farcical.  The  swirl  of 
the  rapids,  as  he  had  then  told  himself,  had 
already  caught  his  boat.  All  that  was  left  to 
do  was  to  go  straighten  to  the  sheer  of  the  fall, 
with  his  pennant  flying  and  himself  singing  at 
the  helm.  Then,  on  the  brink,  a  well-placed 
bullet  —  no  bungling  for  Anthony  Cazeby  !  — 
and  the  next  day  people  would  be  talking  of 
the  shocking  accident  which  had  killed  him  in 
the  act  of  cleaning  his  revolver,  and  saying  the 


64  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

usual  things  about  a  young  man  with  a  brilliant 
future  before  him  and  everything  in  life  for 
which  to  live. 

And  this  plan  he  had  carried  out  in  every 
detail  —  save  the  last,  to  which  he  was  now 
come;  and  his  was  the  satisfying  conviction 
that  not  one  of  the  brilliant,  careless  men  and 
women,  among  whom  he  lived,  and  moved,  and 
had  his  being,  suspected  for  a  moment  that  the 
actual  circumstances  differed  in  the  least  from 
the  outward  appearances.  He  thought  it  all 
over  carefully  now,  and  there  was  no  play  in 
the  entire  game  that  he  felt  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  changed. 

Sentiment  had  no  part  in  the  makeup  of 
Anthony  Cazeby.  Lacking  from  early  child- 
hood the  common  ties  of  home  affection,  and 
by  training  and  profession  a  diplomat,  he 
added  to  a  naturally  undemonstrative  nature 
the  non-committal  suavity  of  official  poise.  But 
that  was  not  all.  He  had  never  been  known 
to  be  ill  at  ease.  This  was  something  which 
gained  him  a  reputation  for  studious  self-con- 
trol. As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  due  to  nothing 
of  the  sort.  No  one  had  ever  come  fairly  at 
the  root  of  his  character  except  Cazeby  pere, 


THE   NEXT  CORNER  65 

who  once  said,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  "  You  don't 
care  a  brass  cent,  sir,  whether  you  live  and  are 
made  President  of  the  United  States,  or  die 
and  are  eternally  damned ! "  And  that  was 
exactly  the  point. 

Something  of  all  this  had  passed  through 
Cazeby's  mind,  when  he  was  suddenly  aroused 
to  an  appreciation  of  his  whereabouts  by  the 
sound  of  a  voice,  to  find  that  the  curious  in- 
stinct of  direction  which  underlies  advanced 
inebriety  and  profound  preoccupation  alike, 
had  led  him  up  the  avenue  du  Trocade'ro,  and 
across  the  place,  and  that  he  had  already  ad- 
vanced some  little  way  along  the  avenue  d'Ey- 
lau  in  the  direction  of  his  apartment.  The 
street  was  dimly  lighted,  but,  just  behind  him, 
the  windows  of  a  tiny  wine-shop  gave  out  a 
subdued  glow,  and  from  within  came  the  sound 
of  a  violin.  Then  Cazeby's  attention  came 
around  to  the  owner  of  the  voice.  This  was  a 
youngish  man  of  medium  stature,  in  the  famil- 
iar street  dress  of  a  French  laborer,  jacket  and 
waistcoat  of  dull  blue  velveteen,  peg-top  trou- 
sers of  heavy  corduroy,  a  crimson  knot  at  his 
throat,  and  a  dark  tam  o'shanter  pulled  low 
over  one  ear.  As  their  eyes  met,  he  apparently 


66  THE   NEXT  CORNER 

saw  that  Cazeby  had  not  heard  his  first  remark, 
and  so  repeated  it. 

"  I  have  need  of  a  drink  ! " 

There  was  nothing  of  the  beggar  in  his  tone 
or  manner.  Both  were  threatening,  rather ; 
and,  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  he  thrust  his 
lower  jaw  forward,  in  the  fashion  common  to 
the  thug  of  any  and  every  nationality  when  the 
next  move  is  like  to  be  a  blow.  But,  for  once, 
these  manifestations  of  hostility  failed  signally 
of  effect.  Cazeby  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  select  as  the  object  of  sudden  attack, 
with  the  idea  that  panic  would  make  him  easy 
prey.  In  his  present  state  of  mind  he  went 
further  than  preserving  his  equanimity :  he  was 
even  faintly  amused.  It  was  not  that  he  did 
not  comprehend  the  other's  purpose,  but,  to 
his  way  of  thinking,  there  was  something  dis- 
tinctly humorous  in  the  idea  of  holding  up  a 
man  with  only  sixty  centimes  to  his  name,  and 
menacing  him  with  injury,  when  he  himself 
was  on  his  way  to  the  upper  right  hand  drawer 
of  the  marqueterie  desk. 

"I  have  need  of  a  drink,"  repeated  the 
other,  coming  a  step  nearer.  "  Thou  art  not 
deaf,  at  least  ?  " 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  6? 

"  No,"  said  Cazeby,  pleasantly,  "  no,  I  am 
not  deaf,  and  I,  too,  have  need  of  a  drink. 
Shall  we  take  it  together  ? "  And,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  he  turned  and  stepped 
through  the  doorway  of  the  little  wineshop. 
The  Frenchman  hesitated,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders with  an  air  of  complete  bewilderment,  and, 
after  an  instant  also  entered  the  shop  and 
placed  himself  at  the  small  table  where  Cazeby 
was  already  seated. 

"  A  vitriol  for  me,"  he  said. 

Cazeby  had  not  passed  three  years  in  Paris 
for  nothing.  He  received  this  remarkable  re- 
quest with  the  unconcern  of  one  to  whom  the 
slang  of  the  exterior  boulevards  is  sufficiently 
familiar,  and,  as  the  proprietor  leaned  across 
the  nickled  slab  of  his  narrow  counter  with  an 
air  of  interrogation,  duplicated  his  companion's 
order. 

"  Deux  vitriols  ! " 

The  proprietor,  vouchsafing  the  phrase  a 
grin  of  appreciation,  lumbered  heavily  around 
to  the  table,  filled  two  small  glasses  from  a 
bottle  of  cheap  cognac,  and  stood  awaiting  pay- 
ment, hands  on  hips. 

"  Di-ze  sous,"  he  said. 


68  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

There  was  no  need  to  search  for  the  exact 
amount.  Cazeby  spun  his  fifty-centime  piece 
upon  the  marble,  added  his  remaining  two 
sous  by  way  of  pourboire,  and  disposed  of  the 
brandy  at  a  gulp. 

"  Have  you  also  need  of  a  cigarette  ?  "  he 
inquired,  politely,  tendering  the  other  his  case. 

For  some  minutes,  as  they  smoked,  the 
diplomat  and  the  vagabond  took  stock  of  each 
other  in  silence.  In  many  ways  they  were  sin- 
gularly alike.  There  was  in  both  the  same 
irony  of  lip  line,  the  same  fair  chiseling  of  chin 
and  nostril  and  brow,  the  same  weariness  of 
eye.  The  difference  was  one  of  dress  and 
bearing  alone,  and,  in  those  first  moments  of 
mutual  analysis,  Cazeby  realized  that  there 
was  about  this  street-lounger  a  vague  air  of  the 
gentleman,  a  subtle  suggestion  of  good  birth 
and  breeding,  which  even  his  slouching  man- 
ner and  coarse  speech  were  not  wholly  able  to 
conceal :  and  his  guest  was  conscious  that  in 
Cazeby  he  had  to  deal  with  no  mere  society 
puppet,  but  with  one  in  whom  the  limitations 
of  position  had  never  wholly  subdued  the  devil- 
may-care  instincts  of  the  vagabond.  The  one 
was  a  finished  model  of  a  man  of  the  world, 


THE  NEXT   CORNER 


the  other  a  caricature,  but  the  clay  was  the 
same. 

"  I  am  also  hungry,"  said  the  latter  sud- 
denly. 

"In  that  respect,"  responded  Cazeby,  in 
the  same  tone  of  even  politeness,  "  I  am,  un- 
fortunately, unable  to  assist  you,  unless  you 
will  accept  the  hospitality  of  my  apartment. 
It  is  but  a  step,  and  I  am  rather  an  expert  on 
bacon  and  eggs.  Also,"  he  added,  falling  into 
the  idiom  of  the  faubourgs,  "  there  is  a  means 
there  of  remedying  the  dryness  of  the  sponge  in 
one's  throat.  My  name  is  Antoine." 

"  I  am  Bibi-la-Raie,"  said  the  other  shortly. 
Then  he  continued,  with  instinctive  suspicion, 
"  It  is  a  strange  fashion  thou  hast  of  introduc- 
ing a  type  to  these  gentlemen." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Cazeby,  "  I  do 
not  live  over  a  poste.  But  whether  or  not  you 
will  come  is  something  for  you  to  decide.  It 
is  less  trouble  to  cook  eggs  for  one  than  for 
two." 

Bibi-la-Raie  reflected  briefly.  Finally  he  had 
recourse  to  his  characteristic  shrug. 

"  After  all,  what  difference  ? "  he  said.  "  As 
well  now  as  another  time.  I  follow  thee ! " 


70  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

The  strangely  assorted  companions  entered 
Cazeby's  apartment  as  the  clock  was  striking 
one,  and  pressure  of  an  electric  button,  flood- 
ing the  salon  with  light,  revealed  a  little  tea- 
table  furnished  with  cigarettes  and  cigars, 
decanters  of  Scotch  whiskey  and  liqueurs, 
and  Venetian  goblets  of  oddly  tinted  glass. 
Cazeby  shot  a  swift  glance  at  his  guest  as  this 
array  sprang  into  view,  and  was  curiously  con- 
tent to  observe  that  he  manifested  no  surprise. 
Bibi-la-Raie  had  flung  himself  into  a  great 
leather  chair  with  an  air  of  being  entirely  at 
ease. 

"  Not  bad,  thy  little  box,"  he  observed.  "  Is 
it  permitted  ? " 

He  indicated  the  table  with  a  nod, 

"  Assuredly,"  said  Cazeby.  "  Do  as  if  you 
were  at  home.  I  shall  be  but  a  moment  with 
the  supper." 

When  he  returned  from  the  kitchen,  bearing 
a  smoking  dish  of  bacon  and  eggs,  butter,  rye 
bread,  and  Swiss  cheese,  Bibi-la-Raie  was 
standing  in  rapt  contemplation  before  an  etch- 
ing of  the  "  Last  Judgment." 

"  What  a  genius,  this  animal  of  a  Michel 
Ange ! "  he  said. 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  71 

"Rather  deft  at  times,"  replied  Cazeby, 
arranging  the  dishes  on  the  larger  table. 

"  Je  te  crois  !  "  said  Bibi,  enthusiastically. 
"  Without  him  —  what  ?  Evidently,  it  was  not 
Le'on  Treize  who  built  Saint  Pierre  !  " 

The  eggs  had  been  peculiarly  obstinate,  as 
it  happened,  and  a  growing  irritability  had 
taken  possession  of  Anthony.  As  they  ate  in 
silence,  the  full  force  of  his  tragic  position 
returned  to  him.  Even  the  unwontedness  of 
his  chance  encounter  with  Bibi-la-Raie  had 
not  wholly  dispelled  the  cloud  that  had  been 
gradually  settling  around  him  since  he  emerged 
from  the  Automobile  Club,  and,  as  they  finished 
the  little  repast,  he  turned  suddenly  upon  his 
guest,  in  a  burst  of  irritation. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  said.  "  And  what  does 
all  this  mean  ?  Was  I  mistaken,  when  you  first 
spoke  to  me,  in  thinking  you  a  mere  voyou  ? 
Surely  not !  You  meant  to  rob  me.  You  speak 
the  argot  of  the  fortifications.  Yet  here  I  find 
you  discoursing  on  Michel  Angelo  as  though 
you  were  the  conservateur  of  the  Uffizzi !  What 
am  I  to  think  ?  " 

Bibi-la-Raie  lit  another  cigarette,  blew  forth 
the  smoke  in  a  thin,  gray  wisp,  and  thrust  his 


72  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of  his  velveteen 
waistcoat. 

"  And  you,"  he  said,  slowly,  abandoning  the 
familiar  address  he  had  been  using,  "who  are 
you  ?  No,  you  were  not  mistaken  in  thinking 
I  meant  to  rob  you.  Such  is  my  profession. 
But  does  a  gentleman  reply,  in  ordinary,  to  the 
summons  of  a  thief  by  paying  that  thief  a  drink  ? 
Does  he  invite  him  to  his  apartment  and  cook 
a  supper  for  him  ?  What  am  I  to  think  ?  " 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  he  faced 
his  host  squarely. 

"  Are  you  absolutely  resolved  to  put  an  end 
to  it  all  to-night  ? "  he  demanded. 

Cazeby  made  a  small  sign  of  bewilderment. 

"Ah,  mon  vieux,"  continued  the  other.  "That, 
you  know,  is  of  no  use  with  me.  You  ask  me 
who  I  am.  For  one  thing,  I  am  one  who  has 
lived  too  long  in  touch  with  desperate  men  not 
to  know  the  look  in  the  eyes  when  the  end  has 
come.  You  think  you  are  going  to  blow  out 
your  brains  to-night." 

"  Your  wits  are  wandering ;  that 's  all,"  said 
Cazeby,  compassionately. 

"  Oh,  far  from  it !  "  said  Bibi-la-Raie,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  But  one  does  not  fondle  one's 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  73 

revolver  in  the  daytime  without  a  good  reason, 
nor  does  one  leave  it  on  top  of  letters  post- 
marked this  morning  unless  one  has  been  fon- 
dling it  —  quoi  ?  " 

Cazeby  was  at  the  marqueterie  desk  in  two 
strides,  tugging  at  the  upper  right  hand  drawer. 
It  was  locked.  He  turned  about  slowly,  and, 
half  seating  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  desk, 
surveyed  his  guest  coolly. 

"  The  revolver  is  in  your  pocket,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  answered  Bibi,  with  an  air  of  cheerful- 
ness. "  I  have  one  of  my  own.  But  the  key 
is." 

"Why?  "said  Cazeby. 

Bibi  helped  himself  to  yellow  chartreuse,  and 
appeared  to  reflect. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  why,  myself," 
he  said  finally.  "  Perhaps,  because  you  have 
done  me  a  kindness  and  I  would  not  like  to 
have  you  burn  your  fingers  in  a  moment  of  ab- 
sent-mindedness. Perhaps,  because  we  might 
disagree,  and  I  should  not  care  to  take  the 
chance  of  your  shooting  first !  " 

He  squinted  at  the  liqueur,  swallowed  it 
slowly  and  with  extreme  appreciation,  smacked 
his  lips,  and  then,  cocking  his  feet  up  on 


74  THE  NEXT  CORNER 

Cazeby's  brass  club  fender,  began  to  smoke 
again,  staring  into  the  dwindling  fire.  His 
host  watched  him  in  silence,  until  he  should 
be  ready  to  speak,  which  he  presently  began 
to  do,  with  his  cigarette  drooping  from  the  cor- 
ner of  his  month  and  moving  in  time  to  his 
words.  He  had  suddenly  and  curiously  be- 
come a  man  of  the  world  —  of  the  grand  monde 
—  and  his  speech  had  shaken  off  all  trace  of 
slang,  and  was  tinged  instead  with  the  faint 
club  sarcasm  which  one  hears  in  the  glass  card- 
room  of  the  Volney  or  over  coffee  on  the  roof 
of  the  Automobile.  Moreover,  it  was  beautiful 
French.  Not  Mounet  himself  could  have  done 
better. 

"  The  only  man  to  whom  one  should  con- 
fide personal  secrets,"  said  Bibi-la-Raie,  "is 
he  whom  one  has  never  seen  before  and  will, 
as  is  probable,  never  see  again.  I  could  tell 
you  many  things,  Monsieur  Cazeby,  since  that 
is  your  name,  —  I  have  seen  your  morning's 
mail,  you  know  !  —  but,  for  the  moment,  let  it 
suffice  to  say  that  the  voyou  who  accosted  you 
this  evening  is  of  birth  as  good  as  yours  — 
pardon,  but  probably  better  !  Wein,  weib,  und 
gesang  —  you  know  the  saying.  Add  cards 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  75 

and  the  race-course,  and  you  have,  complete, 
the  short  ladder  of  five  rungs  down  which  I 
have  been  successful  in  climbing.  I  shall  pre- 
sume to  the  extent  of  supposing  that  you  have 
just  accomplished  the  same  descent.  One  learns 
much  thereby,  but  more  after  one  has  reached 
the  ground.  In  many  ways  I  am  afraid  experi- 
ence has  made  me  cynical,  but  in  one  it  has 
taught  me  optimism.  I  have  found,  and  I  think 
I  shall  continue  to  find,  that  there  is  always 
something  worth  looking  into  around  the  next 
corner  of  even  the  darkest  street.  The  rue 
des  Sablons,  for  instance.  It  was  very  dark 
to-night,  very  damp,  and  very  cold.  Assuredly, 
as  I  turned  into  the  avenue  d'Eylau  I  had  no 
reason  to  foresee  a  supper,  Russian  cigarettes, 
and  chartreuse  jaune.  And  yet,  me  voila !  Now 
what  most  of  us  lack  —  what  you,  in  particular, 
seem  to  lack,  Monsieur  Cazeby  —  is  the  tena- 
city needful  if  one  is  to  get  to  that  next  turn- 
ing." 

"  There  are  streets  darker  than  the  rue  des 
Sablons,"  put  in  Anthony,  falling  in  with  the 
other's  whimsical  humor,  "and  that  have  no 
turning." 

"You  speak  from  conjecture,   not  experi- 


76  THE   NEXT  CORNER 

ence,"  said  Bibi-la-Raie.  "  You  can  never  have 
seen  one." 

He  glanced  about  the  room,  with  the  air  of 
one  making  a  mental  inventory. 

"  First,"  he  added,  "  there  come  the  pawn- 
shop, the  exterior  boulevards,  the  somewhat 
insufficient  shelter  of  the  Pont  Royal.  No, 
you  have  not  come  to  the  last  corner." 

"  All  that,"  said  Cazeby,  "  is  simply  a  matter 
of  philosophy.  Each  of  us  has  his  own  idea 
of  what  makes  life  worth  the  while.  When 
that  is  no  longer  procurable,  then  that  is  the 
last  corner." 

"For  instance—  ?" 

"  For  instance,  my  own  case.  You  have  ana- 
lyzed my  situation  sufficiently  well  —  though 
when  you  said  I  was  about  to  blow  out  my 
brains  "  — 

"It  was  a  mere  guess,"  interrupted  Bibi, 
"  founded  on  circumstantial  evidence.  Then 
I  thought  so.  Now  I  know  it." 

"  Let  us  grant  you  are  right,"  continued 
Cazeby,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have  my  own  con- 
ception of  what  I  require  to  make  existence 
tolerable.  It  includes  this  apartment,  or  its 
equivalent,  a  horse,  two  servants,  two  clubs, 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  77 

and  a  sufficient  income  to  dress,  eat,  entertain, 
and  amuse  myself  in  the  manner  of  my  class, 
—  an  extravagant  and  unreasonable  standard, 
if  you  will,  but  such  is  my  conviction.  Now, 
granted  that  the  moment  has  come  when  it 
is  no  longer  possible  for  me  to  have  these 
things,  and  when  there  is  no  prospect  of  my 
situation  being  bettered,  I  cannot  conceive 
what  advantage  there  can  be  in  continuing  to 
live." 

"  I  perceive  you  are  a  philosopher,"  said  the 
other.  "  How  about  the  religious  view  ?  " 

Cazeby  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  As  to  that,"  he  said,  "  my  religious  views 
are,  so  far  as  I  know,  stored  away  in  the  little 
church  which  I  was  forced  to  attend  three  times 
on  every  Sunday  of  my  boyhood.  They  did 
not  come  out  with  me  on  the  last  occasion,  and 
I  have  never  met  them  since." 

"  Excellent ! "  said  Bibi.  "  It  is  the  same 
with  me.  But  I  think  you  are  mistaken  in  your 
conviction  of  what  makes  life  worth  living.  I 
had  my  own  delusions  in  the  time.  But  I  have 
had  a  deal  of  schooling  since  then.  There  are 
many  things  as  amusing  as  luxury  —  even  on 
the  exterior  boulevards.  Of  course,  actual  ex- 


78  THE   NEXT  CORNER 


perience  is  essential.  One  never  knows  what 
one  would  do  under  given  conditions." 

He  turned  suddenly,  and  looked  Cazeby  in 
the  eye. 

"What,  for  example,  would  you  do  if  you 
were  in  my  place  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  you  say,  one  never  knows,"  said  his 
host.  "  I  think  that,  in  your  place,  I  should 
improve  the  opportunity  you  find  open,  and 
carry  out  your  late  and  laudable  intention  of 
robbing  Monsieur  Antoine  Cazeby.  I  may 
be  influenced  by  my  knowledge  that  such  a 
proceeding  would  not  irritate  or  incommode 
him  in  the  least,  but  that  is  what  I  think  I 
should  do. 

"I  shall  not  need  these  things  to-morrow," 
he  added,  indicating  his  surroundings  with  a 
gesture.  "You  were  quite  right  about  the 
pistol.  As  to  your  prospective  booty,  I  re- 
gret to  say  that  I  spent  my  last  sixty  centimes 
on  our  cognac,  but  there  is  a  remarkably  fine 
scarf-pin  on  the  table  in  my  dressing-room." 

"  A  sapphire,  surrounded  by  black  pearls," 
put  in  the  other.  "  You  were  rather  long  in 
cooking  those  eggs." 

"  A  sapphire,  surrounded  by  black  pearls," 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  79 

agreed  Cazeby.  "  Yes,  upon  reflection,  I  am 
quite  sure  that  that  is  what  I  should  do." 

Bibi-la-Raie  smiled  pleasantly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  we  are  of  one  mind,"  he 
said.  "  Of  course,  mine  was  made  up,  but  it 
is  more  agreeable  to  know  that  I  am  causing 
you  no  inconvenience.  I  suppose  it  is  un- 
necessary to  add  that  resistance  will  be  quite 
useless.  I  have  the  only  available  revolver, 
and,  moreover,  I  propose  to  tie  you  into  this 
extremely  comfortable  chair.  It  is  not,"  he 
added,  "  that  I  do  not  trust  you,  although  our 
acquaintance  is,  unfortunately,  too  recent  to 
inspire  complete  confidence.  No,  I  have  my 
convictions  as  well  as  you,  Monsieur  Cazeby, 
and  one  of  them,  curiously  enough,  is  that,  in 
spite  of  appearances,  I  am  doing  you  a  kind- 
ness in  putting  it  out  of  your  power,  for  to- 
night, at  least,  to  do  yourself  an  injury.  Who 
knows  ?  Perhaps,  in  the  morning,  you  may 
find  that  there  is  something  around  the  next 
corner,  after  all.  If  not,  there  is  no  harm 
done.  Your  servants  come  in  early  ?  " 

"  At  seven  o'clock,"  said  Anthony,  briefly. 

"  Exactly.  And  I  will  leave  the  key  in  the 
drawer." 


80  THE  NEXT  CORNER 


Bibi  was  expeditious.  When  he  had  bound 
Cazeby  firmly,  and  with  an  art  that  showed 
practice,  he  disappeared  into  the  dressing- 
room,  returning  in  less  than  a  minute  with 
the  sapphire  scarf-pin  and  several  other  arti- 
cles of  jewelry  in  his  hand. 

"  I  should  like  to  add  to  these,"  he  said, 
going  to  the  book-case,  "this  little  copy  of 
Omar  Khayyam.  He  is  a  favorite  of  mine. 
There  is  something  about  his  philosophy  which 
seems  to  accord  with  our  own.  But  —  '  the  bird 
of  time  has  but  a  little  way  to  flutter  ' "  —  He 
paused  at  the  door. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  before  I  go  ?  " 
he  inquired  politely. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  turn  off  the  light,"  said 
the  other.  "  The  button  is  on  the  right  of  the 
door:9 

"  Good-night,"  said  Bibi-la-Raie. 

"  Good-night,  —  brother  ! "  said  Cazeby. 

Then  he  heard  the  door  of  the  apartment 
close  softly. 

Anthony  was  awakened  from  a  restless  sleep 
by  the  sound  of  its  opening.  Through  the 
gap  between  the  window  draperies  the  gray 
light  of  the  winter  morning  was  creeping  in. 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  81 

His  wrists  and  ankles  were  aching  from  the 
pressure  of  the  curtain  cords  with  which  he 
had  been  bound,  and  he  was  gratified  when, 
after  a  brief  interval,  the  salon  door  was  opened 
in  its  turn  and  the  invaluable  Jules  came  in,  in 
shirt-sleeves  and  long  white  apron,  carrying 
a  handful  of  letters. 

That  impassive  person  was  probably  never 
nearer  to  being  visibly  surprised.  For  a  breath 
he  stopped,  and  the  pupils  of  his  round  eyes 
dilated  like  those  of  a  cat  in  a  dim  light.  But 
his  training  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  when 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  as  innocent  of  emotion 
as  if  he  had  been  announcing  dinner. 
"  Monsieur  desires  to  be  untied  ? " 
Left  to  himself,  Cazeby  turned  his  attention 
to  his  letters,  and  from  the  top  of  the  pile 
picked  up  a  cablegram.  He  was  still  reflect- 
ing upon  the  singular  experience  of  the  night, 
in  an  attempt  to  analyze  his  present  emotions. 
Was  he  in  any  whit  changed  by  his  enforced 
reprieve  ?  He  was  glad  to  think  not.  Above 
all  minor  faults  he  abhorred  vacillation  of 
purpose.  No,  his  situation  and  his  purpose 
remained  unaltered.  But  he  was  conscious, 
nevertheless,  of  an  unwonted  thrill  at  the 


82  THE  NEXT  CORNER 


thought  that,  but  for  the  merest  chance,  it 
would  have  been  for  others  to  open  the  en- 
velope he  was  even  now  fingering.  Jules 
would  already  have  found  him  —  he  wondered, 
with  the  shadow  of  a  smile,  whether  Jules 
would  still  have  been  unsurprised !  —  and 
would  have  brought  up  the  concierge  and  the 
police  — 

Suddenly  the  cable  message  jumped  at  him 
through  his  revery  as  if,  at  that  moment,  the 
words  had  been  instantaneously  printed  on 
what  was  before  blank  paper,  and  he  realized 
that  it  was  from  his  father's  solicitor. 

Mr.  Cazeby  died  eight  o'clock  this  evening 
after  making  will  your  favor  whole  property. 
Waiting  instructions. 

MlLLIKEN. 

Anthony  straightened  himself  with  a  long 
sigh,  and,  putting  aside  the  curtain,  looked  out 
across  the  mansardes,  wet  and  gleaming  under 
a  thin  rain.  His  hand  trembled  a  little  on  the 
heavy  velvet,  and  he  frowned  at  it,  and,  going 
across  to  the  table,  poured  himself  out  a  swal- 
low of  brandy. 


THE  NEXT  CORNER  83 

With  the  glass  at  his  lips  he  paused,  his 
eyes  upon  the  chair  where  Bibi-la-Raie  had 
sat  and  wherein  he  himself  had  passed  five 
hours.  Then,  very  ceremoniously,  he  bowed 
and  dipped  his  glass  toward  an  imaginary  oc- 
cupant. 

"  Merci,  monsieur  !  "  he  said. 


The  Only  Son  of 
His  Mother 

IN  the  limited  understanding  of  Pe'pin  dwelt 
one  great  Fact,  in  the  shadow  of  which  all 
else  shrank  to  insignificance,  and  that  Fact 
was  the  existence  of  Comte  Victor  de  Viller- 
sexel,  the  extremely  tall  and  extraordinarily 
imposing  person  who  was,  first  of  all,  Officier 
de  la  Legion  d'Honneur,  second,  Membre  de 
1'Academie  Frangaise,  and,  lastly,  father  to 
Pepin  himself.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that 
to  the  more  observing  of  his  limited  kinsfolk 
and  extensive  acquaintance  the  clay  feet  of 
Pepin's  idol  were  distinctly  in  evidence.  How 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER     85 

he  had  contrived  to  attain  to  the  proud  emi- 
nence which  he  occupied  was,  in  the  earlier 
days  of  his  publicity,  a  matter  of  curious  con- 
jecture and  not  over-plausible  explanation. 
Certainly  no  inherent  merit  or  ability  it  was 
which  formed  the  first  step  of  the  stairway  he 
had  climbed.  In  diplomacy  the  Comte  de 
Villersexel  had  never  bettered  his  first  appoint- 
ment as  second  secretary  of  legation  at  Bel- 
grade ;  in  literature  his  achievements  were 
limited  to  one  ponderous  work  on  feudalism, 
remarkable  chiefly  for  its  surpassing  futility ; 
and  in  society  his  sole  claim  to  consideration 
lay  in  his  marriage  to  a  Brazilian  heiress,  who 
had  died  within  the  year,  leaving  her  husband 
an  income  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs  — 
and  Pe'pin.  In  all  this  it  was  difficult  to  find 
a  sufficient  reason  for  the  crimson  button  and 
the  green  embroidered  coat,  unless  it  was  that 
the  family  of  de  Villersexel  went  back  to  the 
Crusades.  That  is  not  always  a  prudent  thing 
for  a  family  to  do,  but  the  present  instance 
was  an  exception. 

Born  to  the  heritage  of  a  name  which  his 
predecessors  had  made  notable,  Comte  Victor 
was  one  of  those  whose  greatness  is  thrust 


86     THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

upon  them  rather  than  achieved,  one  of  the 
bubbles  in  the  ferment  of  Paris  which  their 
very  levity  brings  to  the  top,  to  show  rainbow 
tints  in  the  sunlight  of  publicity.  It  is  prob- 
able that  no  one  was  more  surprised  than  de 
Villersexel  himself  at  the  honors  which  fell 
to  his  share,  but  one  thing  even  the  most  con- 
temptuous had,  perforce,  to  concede.  Once 
secure  of  his  laurels,  he  wore  them  with  a 
confidence  that  was  akin  to  conviction  His 
reserve  was  iron-clad,  his  dignity  stupendous. 
It  required  considerable  time  for  new  acquaint- 
ances to  probe  the  secret  of  his  insufficiency. 
Victor  de  Villersexel  was,  as  the  irreverent 
young  military  attache*  at  the  American  Em- 
bassy once  said  of  him,  "  a  dazzling  imitation 
of  the  real  thing." 

But  to  Pe'pin  the  idol  was  an  idol  without 
flaw.  Through  what  shrewd  appreciation  of 
occasional  words  and  chance  comments  he  had 
contrived  to  grasp  the  significance  of  that  speck 
of  scarlet  upon  the  Count's  lapel  and  that  ap- 
parently simple  phrase,  "  de  1'Academie  Fran- 
C.aise,"  which,  in  formal  introductions,  was  wont 
to  follow  his  father's  name,  must  be  numbered 
among  childhood's  mysteries.  But  before  he 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER     87 

was  seven,  Pe'pin  had  solved  these  prob- 
lems for  himself,  and  the  results  of  his  reason- 
ing were  awestruck  admiration  and  blind  alle- 
giance to  the  will  of  this  wonderful  creature 
who  never  smiled.  His  own  small  individuality 
was  so  completely  overshadowed  by  that  of  his 
father  that  in  the  latter's  presence  the  child 
was  scarcely  noticeable,  dressed  in  his  sober 
blouses,  and  creeping  about  the  stately  rooms 
of  the  great  apartment  in  the  avenue  d'le'na 
with  an  absolutely  noiseless  step.  He  was  all 
brown,  was  Pe'pin :  brown  bare  legs,  and  brown 
hands,  very  small  and  slender^  brown  hair, 
cropped  short  and  primly  parted,  and  deep 
brown  eyes,  eloquent  of  unspoken  and  un- 
speakable things.  He  was  earnest,  his  tutor 
said,  earnest  and  willing,  but  not  bright,  poor 
Pe'pin  !  He  spoke  English,  to  be  sure,  with  a 
curious  accent  caught  from  his  Cornish  nurse, 
but  that  was  due  not  so  much  to  ability  as  to 
enforced  association.  In  his  French  grammar 
and  such  simple  arithmetic  as  was  required  of 
him  he  was  slow  and  often  stupid.  But  he  was 
rarely  scolded,  and  never  punished.  Once, 
indeed,  the  Comte  had  been  about  to  strike 
him  for  some  trifling  fault,  but  somehow  the 


88     THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

blow,  for  which  Pepin  stood  waiting,  never 
fell. 

"  H6  is  like  his  mother,"  the  legionnaire  had 
muttered,  as  he  turned  away,  "  an  imbecile  — 
but "  — 

Pepin,  catching  the  unfinished  phrase,  grew 
sick  with  a  great  discouragement,  mingled  with 
profound  pity  for  the  man  before  him.  It  must 
be  a  dreadful  thing  for  one  so  famous  to  be  the 
father  of  an  imbecile  !  From  that  day  on  the 
child  was  more  inconspicuous  than  before. 

Deliberately  affected  in  the  first  instance, 
what  was  known  in  society  as  de  Villersexel's 
"  academic  manner  "  came  in  course  of  time 
to  be  second  nature.  Practice  made  perfect 
the  chill  reserve  which  was  originally  assumed 
as  a  precaution  against  possible  discovery  of 
his  vapidity;  and  as  the  image  of  what  the 
academician  had  been,  before  his  election, 
grew  dimmer  in  society's  recollection,  his  im- 
pressive solemnity,  barely  disguised  by  a  veneer 
of  superficial  courtesy,  did  not  fail  of  its  effect. 
He  was  spoken  of  as  a  man  in  whom  much  lay 
below  the  surface,  and  his  more  recent  acquaint- 
ances coupled  their  estimate  of  his  character 
with  the  proverbial  profundity  of  still  waters, 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER      89 

and  the  familiar  gloved  fist  of  steel.  Others, 
more  observant,  smiled  at  the  similes,  but  did 
not  go  to  the  pains  of  proving  them  ill  applied. 
One  of  the  most  characteristic  things  about 
the  Comte  de  Villersexel  was  that  he  inspired 
neither  championship  nor  antagonism. 

With  all  this,  he  was  consistent,  with  that 
curious  obstinacy  which  is  sometimes  made 
manifest  in  the  shallowest  natures.  His  role, 
once  assumed,  was,  as  we  have  said,  played  to 
perfection  and  never  laid  aside.  The  domestic 
threshold,  which  is,  for  the  majority  of  men,  a 
kind  of  uncloaking  room,  saw  never  an  altera- 
tion, even  of  voice  or  expression,  in  his  pose. 
The  household  affairs  were  regulated  with  al- 
most military  precision,  and  once  a  day,  at 
noon,  Pepin  and  his  father  met  in  the  large 
salon,  —  the  Comte  in  his  tall  satin  stock  and 
frock  coat,  and  Pe'pin  fresh  from  the  careful 
hands  of  his  nurse.  They  shook  hands  gravely, 
and  then  waited  in  silence,  until  the  maitre 
d'hotel  announced  breakfast,  — 

"  Ces  messieurs  sont  servis  ! " 

What  meals  they  were,  to  be  sure,  those  de*- 
jeuners,  solemnly  served,  and  more  solemnly 
eaten,  under  the  rigid  observation  of  three 


90     THE  ONLY   SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER 

menservants  ;  de  Villersexel,  with  his  thin  lips, 
his  cold  eyes,  and  his  finely  pointed  gray  mus- 
tache, barely  moving  save  to  raise  his  fork  or 
break  a  morsel  from  his  roll,  and  Pepin,  all 
brown,  perched  like  a  mouse  on  the  edge  of  a 
great  chair,  and  nibbling  at  tiny  scraps  of  food 
with  downcast  eyes ! 

At  the  very  end,  as  the  Comte  was  about  to 
push  back  his  chair,  he  would  invariably  raise 
his  glass  of  champagne  and  Pepin  his,  wherein 
a  few  drops  of  red  wine  turned  the  Evian  to 
a  pale  heliotrope,  and  together  they  would 
glance  toward  the  full-length  portrait  which 
hung  above  the  mantel. 

"  Ta  mere  !  "  said  the  Comte. 

11  Maman  !  "  replied  Pe'pin. 

And  so  they  drank  the  toast  of  tribute  to  the 
dead. 

After  breakfast,  the  father  would  read  for 
an  hour  to  the  child,  and  Pe'pin,  seated  on  an- 
other large  chair,  would  listen,  perfectly  mo- 
tionless, striving  desperately  to  understand  the 
long  sentences  which  fell  in  flawlessly  pro- 
nounced succession  from  the  Academician's 
lips.  De  Villersexel  had  a  fairly  clear  recol- 
lection of  what  books  had  been  the  compan- 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER     91 

ions  of  his  childhood,  and  these  he  purchased 
in  the  rarest  editions,  and  clothed  in  the  rich- 
est bindings,  and  read  to  Pepin  :  only  his  re- 
membrance did  not  extend  to  a  very  distinct 
differentiation  between  seven  and  fifteen,  for 
it  was  at  the  latter  age  that  he  read  "  Te'le- 
maque  "  to  himself,  and  at  the  former  that  he 
read  "  Tele'maque  "  to  his  son. 

Then  would  come  a  second  formal  hand- 
shake, and  Pe'pin,  pausing  an  instant  at  the 
door  to  make  a  slow,  stiff  bow,  would  creep  off 
down  the  long  corridor  to  the  nursery,  and  the 
Comte  turn  again  to  his  papers  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  paternal  duty  done. 

How  Pe'pin  contrived  to  spend  the  long 
hours  which  his  daily  walk  and  his  short  les- 
sons left  at  his  disposal,  only  Pepin  knew.  He 
talked  rarely  with  the  servants,  —  "a  thing," 
his  father  told  him,  "  that  no  gentleman  would 
wish  to  do ; "  and  other  children  never  en- 
tered at  the  de  Villersexel  door,  "for,"  said 
the  Comte,  "  children  sow  unfortunate  ideas 
and  spread  disease." 

But  there  were  compensations.  One  was 
the  full-length  portrait  over  the  chimney-piece 
in  the  dining-room.  Pepin  had  no  conception 


92     THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER 


of  how  great  was  the  signature  it  bore,  or  of 
the  fabulous  sum  which  it  had  cost,  but  he 
knew  it  was  very  beautiful,  and,  besides,  it  was 
his  mother,  —  the  sad-eyed,  pale  dream-mother 
he  had  never  seen. 

The  portrait  of  the  Comtesse  de  Villersexel 
had  been  one  of  the  sensations  at  the  Salon  of 
seven  years  before.  The  young  Brazilian  was 
represented  at  the  moment  when  the  bow  left 
the  strings  of  her  violin,  and  on  her  lips  and  in 
her  eyes  yet  dwelt  the  spirit  of  the  music  she 
had  been  playing.  A  clinging  gown  of  ivory- 
white  silk  emphasized  rather  than  hid  the  lines 
of  her  figure,  of  strangely  girlish  slenderness, 
but  straight  and  proud  as  that  of  a  young  em- 
press. In  its  frailty  lay  the  keynote  of  the 
portrait's  charm.  It  was  like  a  reflection  in 
clear  water  that  a  touch  might  disturb,  or  a 
young  anemone  that  a  breath  might  destroy,  — 
not  a  picture  before  which  people  disputed  and 
proffered  noisy  opinions,  but  one  which  im- 
posed silence,  like  the  barely  audible  note  of  a 
distant  Angelus.  It  stood  before  the  memory 
of  its  original,  as  it  had  been  a  spirit,  finger  on 
lip,  at  the  doorway  of  a  tomb. 

This  portrait  of  his  mother  dominated  the 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER     93 


life  of  Pepin  like  the  half-remembered  sub- 
stance of  a  dream.  He  had  known  nothing  of 
her  in  the  life,  for  the  breath  of  being  had 
passed  from  her  lips  to  his  at  the  moment  of 
his  birth,  but  with  the  intuition  of  childhood, 
he  seemed  to  know  that  this  was  one  who 
would  have  loved  him  and  whom  he  would 
have  loved.  He  spent  hours  before  the  pic- 
ture, silent,  spell-bound,  gazing  into  the  deep 
and  tender  eyes  that  shone  with  the  same  pa- 
thetic pleading  that  lay  so  eloquently  in  his 
own,  and  the  only  outbreak  of  rage  which  had 
ever  stirred  his  simple  serenity  was  on  one 
occasion  when  his  nurse  had  found  him  thus 
absorbed,  and,  receiving  no  response  to  her 
summons,  half  alarmed  and  half  indignant,  re- 
proached him  with  wasting  his  time  before  a 
stupid  picture.  Then  Pepin  had  whirled  around 
upon  her,  his  lips  compressed,  his  small  brown 
hands  clenched,  and  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
terrified  even  the  stout  and  prosaic  Cornish- 
woman  out  of  her  accustomed  attitude  of  fat 
complacency. 

"  A  stupid  picture  ?  "  he  stormed.  "  But  it 
is  my  mother,  do  you  hear,  my  mother  !  You 
are  a  wicked  woman,  Elizabeth  !  " 


94     THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

It  was  when  Pepin  was  nearing  his  seventh 
birthday  that  a  wonderful  thing  happened. 
The  Comte  was  giving  a  great  reception  to  the 
Russian  Ambassador,  and  on  an  impulse  which, 
perhaps,  even  he  himself  could  hardly  have 
explained,  sent  for  his  son.  The  child  was 
aroused  from  sleep,  and,  but  half  awake  and 
totally  uncomprehending,  was  submitted  by  the 
worthy  Elizabeth  to  a  veritable  cyclone  of  wash- 
ing, combing,  and  brushing,  and  finally,  clad 
in  spotless  duck,  was  led  by  the  maitre  d'hotel 
down  the  long  corridor  to  the  door  of  the  grand 
salon,  which,  at  his  approach,  swung  open  un- 
der the  touch  of  one  of  the  under  servants. 
Pepin,  dazed  by  the  radiance  of  many  lights 
and  a  great  clamor  of  voices,  paused  on  the 
threshold,  and,  with  a  swift  intuition  of  what 
was  demanded  of  him,  made  his  slow,  stiff  bow. 

"  Le  Vicomte  de  Villersexel,"  said  the  maitre 
d'hotel  in  a  loud  voice  at  his  side,  and  Pepin, 
seeing  his  father  beckon  to  him  from  the  group 
where  he  stood,  slipped  close  to  him  through 
the  crowd,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
Comte  took  his  hand  in  his,  and  bent  forward 
to  say  in  a  whisper,  — 

"You  are  to  hear  Pazzini  play  the  violin. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER     95 

That  is  why  I  sent  for  you.  He  was  your  mo- 
ther's teacher." 

Like  all  that  had  gone  before,  what  followed 
was  to  Pepin  like  a  dream  —  a  beautiful  dream, 
never  to  be  forgotten.  A  great  hush  had  set- 
tled upon  the  brilliant  assemblage,  for  even  in 
Paris  there  are  still  things  which  society  will 
check  its  chatter  to  hear,  and  the  tall,  gray- 
bearded  man,  consulting  with  the  pianist  over 
there,  was  Pazzini,  the  great  Pazzini,  whose 
services  had  been  more  than  once  commanded 
by  royalty  in  vain.  De  Villersexel  had  drawn 
Pepin  nearer  to  the  piano  in  the  brief  interval, 
and  as  the  opening  chords  of  the  introduction 
\vere  struck,  he  found  himself  but  a  few  feet 
from  the  famous  violinist,  his  hand  still  linked 
in  that  of  his  father,  his  eyes  fixed  in  wonder 
upon  this  unknown  man  who  had  been  his 
mother's  teacher. 

The  first  low  note  of  the  violin  fell  upon  the 
silence  like  a  faint,  far  voice,  heard  across  a 
wide  reach  of  calm  water,  and,  as  the  marvel- 
ous melody  swelled  into  the  fullness  of  its 
motif,  something  new  and  strange  stirred  in 
Pe'pin's  heart,  mounted  and  tightened  in  his 
throat,  ran  tingling  to  his  finger-tips.  Through 


96     THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

his  half  parted  lips  the  breath  tiptoed  in  and 
out,  and  his  deep  eyes  grew  every  instant,  could 
he  have  known  it,  more  like  those  of  the  pic- 
ture that  he  loved.  So  he  stood  entranced, 
seeing,  hearing  nothing  but  Pazzini  and  Pazzi- 
ni's  violin,  till  the  sonata  drew  imperceptibly 
toward  its  close.  Like  the  child,  the  great 
violinist  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  all  that 
surrounded  him.  Slowly,  tenderly,  he  led  his 
music  through  the  last  phrases,  until  he  paused 
before  the  supreme  high  sweetness  of  the  final 
note.  How  it  was  he  could  never  have  told, 
but,  in  that  infinitesimal  fraction  of  time,  the 
training  of  years  played  him  false.  He  knew 
that  his  finger-tip  slipped  an  incalculable  atom 
of  space,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  bow  was  on 
the  string,  and  the  imperceptibly  flatted  note 
swelled,  sank,  and  died  away,  unrecognized,  he 
thought,  with  a  throb  of  thankfulness,  by  any 
save  his  master  ear.  And  then  — 


The  long  ripple  of  applause  drowned  the 
child's  whisper,  and  for  an  instant  the  terror 
in  his  heart  grew  still,  believing  his  exclama- 
tion unheard.  Then  it  leaped  to  life  again,  for 
Pazzini  was  looking  at  him,  his  bow  hovering 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER     97 

above  the  instrument  like  his  mother's  in  the 
picture.  In  the  mysterious  solitude  of  the 
crowded  room  the  eyes  of  these  two  met,  each 
reading  the  other's  as  they  had  been  an  open 
book,  and  in  P<£pin's  was  the  pain  of  a  wounded 
animal,  and  in  Pazzini's  a  great  wonder  and  sor- 
row, as  of  one  who  has  hurt  without  intention, 
and  mutely  pleads  for  pardon. 

As  the  applause  ceased,  the  violinist  turned 
to  the  Comte,  and  pointed  to  Pe'pin  with  his 
bow. 

"  Who  is  that  child  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  thaw  in  the  de  VillersexeFs  "  academic 
manner  "  had  been  but  momentary.  With  the 
renewed  hum  of  conversation  he  was  himself 
again,  pale,  proud,  and  immovable. 

"  It  is  my  son,  Pe'pin,"  he  replied,  with  stiff 
courtesy.  "  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  your 
playing  ?  It  was  the  essence  of  perfection,  as 
it  has  ever  been,  and  ever  will  be." 

But  he  could  not  know,  as  he  turned  away 
with  Pe'pin,  that  in  his  heart  the  violinist  said, 
"  Her  boy  !  I  understand  !  " 

The  miracle  of  his  summons  to  the  salon 
that  night  was  not,  as  it  appeared,  the  actual 
climax  of  existence,  for  a  new  marvel  awaited 


98     THE  ONLY  SON   OF   HIS  MOTHER 

Pepin  on  the  morrow.  The  doors  of  the  dining- 
room  had  barely  slid  together  behind  them  when 
the  Comte  turned  to  him. 

"  Yesterday  was  Christmas,"  he  said. 

Pepin  made  no  reply.  In  fact,  the  stupor 
which  descended  upon  him  at  this  infraction 
of  the  usual  routine  of  life  effectually  deprived 
him,  for  the  moment,  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"  It  was  Christmas,"  repeated  the  Comte, 
"  and  because  of  that  you  are  invited  to  a  — 
a  —  soiree  to-day.  Do  you  know  the  English 
children  on  the  entresol  ? " 

"I  have  seen  them,"  faltered  Pe'pin,  "but 
we  have  never  spoken.  You  told  me  "  — 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind,"  broke  in  his 
father.  "  Monsieur  'Ameelton  "  —  stumbling 
desperately  over  the  English  name  —  "  has 
asked  me  to  let  you  visit  them  this  afternoon, 
and  I  have  said  yes  to  him.  Elizabeth  will 
dress  you.  Now  you  may  go." 

Barely  conscious  that  Pe'pin  had  added  a 
timid  "  Merci,  papa  ! "  to  his  customary  bow, 
de  Villersexel  turned  to  his  writing-table,  as 
the  door  closed  behind  the  little  Vicomte,  and, 
unlocking  a  drawer,  took  therefrom  a  letter 
which  had  come  to  him  that  morning,  and, 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER      99 

burying  himself  in  his  arm-chair,  proceeded  to 
its  careful  reperusal.  It  was  in  the  fine  Italian 
handwriting  of  Pazzini,  and  ran  as  follows  :  — 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  This  is  to  be  at  once  a 
confession  and  a  prayer.  What  would  you  say 
if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  Pazzini  —  the  flawless 
Pazzini,  as  men  are  pleased  to  call  me  !  —  mur- 
dered, yes,  murdered  last  night's  sonata  by  flat- 
ting that  wonderful  final  note  ?  Oh,  it  was  a 
very  little  thing,  and  passed  unnoticed,  for  they 
are  stupid,  these  wise  people  who  listen  to  me, 
and  they  did  not  hear.  Even  you,  my  poor 
friend,  even  you  could  not  detect  that  tiny  flaw 
that  was  a  monstrous  crime.  No,  of  all  who 
listened,  there  were  but  two  that  understood 
what  I  had  done.  I  was  one  of  these,  and  the 
other  was  your  son  —  Pe'pin. 

Do  you  know  what  that  means,  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Villersexel  ?  Do  you  understand 
that  it  is  but  one  ear  in  millions  that  is  so 
finely  keyed  that  this  minutest  deviation  could 
wound  it  like  the  most  utter  discord  ?  And  I 
wounded  him,  your  Pepin.  I  saw  it  in  his 
eyes.  Therefore  I  tell  you  —  I,  who  know  — 
that  he  is  a  genius,  a  genius  greater  than  his 


100    THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER 

mother,  and  that,  like  her,  he  must  be  my 
pupil.  I  have  none  other  now.  It  shall  be 
the  work  of  my  old  age  to  make  him  the  great- 
est violinist  of  his  day.  Give  him  to  me,  my 
friend,  if  .not  for  his  own  sake,  then  for  hers  ! 

PAZZINI. 

Prime  feature  of  all  the  year  to  the  little 
Hamiltons,  on  the  entresol,  was  their  Christmas 
tree.  It  arrived  in  some  unknowable  way  in 
the  corner  of  the  grand  salon  on  the  morning 
after  Christmas,  and,  from  the  moment  of  its 
advent,  the  doors  were  sealed,  and  only  the 
privileged  world  of  grown-ups  went  in  and  out, 
and  could  see  the  splendors  within.  Inch  by 
inch  the  hands  of  the  tall  clock  in  the  anti- 
chambre  dragged  themselves  around  successive 
circles  toward  the  hour  of  revelation,  and,  keyed 
to  the  snapping  point  of  frenzy,  the  slender 
figure  of  George  and  the  round,  squat  form  of 
John  stood  motionless  before  the  inexorable 
timepiece,  awaiting  the  stroke  of  four.  This 
suspense  was  harrowing  enough  in  itself,  and 
only  made  bearable  by  recourse  to  occasional 
mad  caperings  up  and  down  the  hall,  and 
whoops  of  mingled  ecstasy  and  exasperation. 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER    101 

What  was  worse  was  the  delay  in  the  arrival 
of  their  guests.  Later,  the  latter  would  be  an 
indispensable  part  of  the  festivities  :  just  now 
they  were  mere  impediments  in  the  path  of 
bliss.  Even  the  grown-ups  were  more  consid- 
erate, and  came  on  time.  Well  they  might, 
since  they  were  granted  immediate  admission 
to  the  enchanted  room,  and  came  out  with 
maddening  accounts  of  what  was  to  be  seen 
therein.  They  sat  about  the  small  salon,  and 
talked  the  stupid  things  of  which  they  were  so 
fond  of  talking,  —  Hamilton,  tall,  straight,  and 
with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  while  he 
watched  his  wife  vainly  endeavoring  to  calm 
her  sons  as  they  foamed  and  pranced  at  the 
sealed  doors;  Miss  Kedgwick,  who  wrote 
books,  and  invited  boys  to  tea;  Monsieur  de 
Bercy,  who  was  odd  because  he  spoke  no  Eng- 
lish, but  who  cut  heads  out  of  nuts  and  apples, 
and  drew  droll  pictures  on  scraps  of  paper; 
Miss  Lys,  who  played  the  piano  for  "  Going  to 
Jerusalem  j "  and  Mr.  Sedgely,  who  talked  very 
low  in  her  ear,  and  said  the  great  trouble  with 
"  Going  to  Jerusalem  "  was  that  the  players 
could  n't  go  there  in  good  earnest  —  whatever 
that  might  mean. 


102    THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

But  would  the  doors  never  open  ? 

The  children  arrived  by  twos  and  threes, 
shook  hands  limply  with  their  elders,  greeted 
their  small  hosts  with  embarrassed  ceremony, 
and  then,  as  if  suddenly  inoculated  with  the 
latter's  madness,  commenced  to  foam  and 
prance  in  their  turn  before  the  unyielding 
portals.  Last  of  all  came  Pdpin,  all  brown, 
who  bowed  at  the  door,  and  then  in  turn  to 
each  of  those  who  spoke  to  him. 

Suddenly,  with  a  shout,  the  children  burst 
through  the  opened  doorway,  and  gathered  in 
voluble  groups  about  the  glistening  miracle 
which  shone  like  a  hundred  stars  in  the  gath- 
ering twilight.  For  a  half  hour  all  was  chaos, 
and  Pepin,  standing  a  little  apart,  marveled 
and  was  still.  Dancing  figures  whirled  about 
him,  bearing  boxes  of  soldiers,  toy  villages, 
dolls,  trumpets,  drums.  The  air  was  full  of 
the  wailing  of  whistles,  the  cries  of  mechanical 
animals,  and  the  clamor  of  childish  comment. 

But  to  Pepin  even  the  dazzling  novelty  of 
his  surroundings  was  as  nothing,  compared 
to  one  object  which  drew  and  fixed  his  atten- 
tion from  the  first  instant,  as  the  needle  is  held 
rigid  by  the  magnetic  pole.  High  up  upon  the 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER    103 

tree,  clearly  outlined  against  its  background 
of  deep  green,  and  gleaming  gorgeously  with 
fresh  varnish  in  the  light  of  the  surrounding 
candles,  hung  a  violin  —  not  one  like  Mon- 
sieur Pazzini's,  large  and  of  a  dull  brown,  but 
small  —  a  violin  for  Pe'pin  himself  to  hold, 
and  new,  and  bright,  and  beyond  all  things 
beautiful  and  to  be  desired  ! 

Then  his  attention  was  distracted  for  a  mo- 
ment. From  the  time  of  his  entrance  the  eyes 
of  Miss  Lys  had  followed  the  dignified  and 
silent  little  Frenchman,  and  where  Miss  Lys 
went  Mr.  Sedgely  followed,  so  that  now  the 
two  were  so  close  that  they  brushed  his  elbow, 
and  Pe'pin,  turning  with  an  instinctive  "  Par- 
don," saw  that  they  were  watching  him  curi- 
ously. When,  with  a  feeling  of  restlessness 
under  their  scrutiny,  he  looked  once  more 
towards  the  tree,  the  violin  was  gone  !  An 
instant  later,  he  saw  it  in  the  madly  sawing 
hands  of  George  Hamilton,  dancing  like  a 
faun  down  the  room,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
a  great  faintness,  such  as  he  had  known  but 
once  before,  —  when  he  had  cut  his  hand,  and 
the  doctor  had  sewed  it,  as  Elizabeth  sewed 
rips  in  cloth. 


104    THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

"  He  is  adorable,"  said  Ethel  Lys,  "  but  I 
have  never  seen  a  sadder  face.  What  eyes! 
—  two  brown  poems." 

"  He  makes  my  heart  ache,"  answered 
Sedgely,  slowly,  "  and  yet  I  could  hardly  say 
why.  Ask  him  what  he  wants  off  the  tree." 

The  girl  was  on  her  knees  by  Pepin  before 
the  phrase  was  fairly  finished. 

"  What  didst  thou  have  for  Christmas  ?  "  she 
asked,  falling  unconsciously  into  that  tender 
second  singular  which  slips  so  naturally  from 
the  lips  at  sight  of  a  French  child. 

"I?  — but  nothing,"  replied  the  little  Vi- 
comte,  pleased  out  of  his  anguish  by  the  sound 
of  his  own  tongue  amid  the  babel  of  English 
phrases. 

The  girl  at  his  side  looked  at  him  with  so 
frank  an  astonishment  that  he  felt  it  necessary 
to  explain. 

"I  have  my  gifts  on  the  day  of  the  year. 
Christmas  is  an  English  fete,  and  I  am  French. 
So  I  have  nothing." 

"  Nothing  ! "  replied  Miss  Lys  blankly,  and 
then,  of  a  sudden,  slipped  her  arm  around  him, 
and  drew  his  head  close  to  her  own. 

"  What  dost  thou  see  on  the  tree  that  thou 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER    105 

wouldst  like  to  have  ? "  she  asked,  eagerly. 
"  What  is  there,  dearest  ?  " 

And,  at  the  unwonted  tenderness  of  her 
question,  the  floodgates  of  Pepin's  reserve 
suddenly  gave  way.  Placing  his  hands  upon 
the  girl's  shoulders,  he  searched  her  face  with 
his  eyes. 

"  If  there  were  another  violin  "  —  he  began, 
and,  faltering,  stopped,  and  turned  away  to 
hide  the  tears  that  would  come,  strive  as  he 
might  to  hold  them  back. 

"  Did  you  hear  him —  and  see  him  ?  "  queried 
Miss  Lys,  a  minute  after,  furiously  backing 
Sedgely  into  a  corner  by  the  lapels  of  his  frock 
coat.  "You  did — you  know  you  did!  And 
you  are  still  here  ?  Lord  !  What  a  man  ! " 

Sedgely  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  pre- 
tense of  utter  bewilderment. 

"  What  must  I  do  ? "  he  inquired,  blankly. 

"Do  9"  stormed  Miss  Lys.  "Do?  Why, 
scour  Paris  till  you  find  a  violin  precisely  like 
that  one  George  is  doing  his  best  to  saw  in 
half.  Here  !  Cle'ment  is  at  the  door  with  the 
trois-quarts.  Tell  him  to  drive  you  like  mad 
to  the  Printemps  —  to  the  big  place  opposite 
the  Grand  Hotel  —  to  the  Louvre  —  to  the 


106    THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS   MOTHER 

Bon  Marche  —  anywhere  —  everywhere  !  But 
inside  of  one  hour  I  must  have  that  violin ! " 

When  Sedgely  returned,  thirty  minutes  later, 
violin  in  hand,  Ethel  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  They  are  all  at  tea,"  she  said.  "  We  '11 
call  Pe'pin  out." 

She  placed  the  violin  in  the  hands  of  the 
Vicomte  without  a  word,  and  without  a  word 
Pepin  took  it  from  her.  The  instrument  slid 
to  his  cheek  as  if  impelled  by  its  own  desire. 

"  Canst  thou  play  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  No,"  said  Pe'pin,  "  and,  besides,  it  is  but  a 
toy.  I  do  not  want  to  hear  it.  But  I  like  to 
feel  it  —  here."  And  he  moved  his  cheek  ca- 
ressingly against  the  cheap  varnish. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  "  —  began 
Sedgely,  and  then  found  himself  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door,  and  Miss  Lys  facing  him  with 
an  air  of  hopeless  resignation. 

"I  —  act-u-ally  —  be-lieve,"  she  said,  with  an 
effort  at  calm,  "  that  you  were  going  to  ask  him 
to  thank  me  for  it ! " 

"  Why  not?"  said  Sedgely. 

"  Lord!  What  a  man  !  "  said  Miss  Lys. 

In   the   dining-room   of  the   de   Villersexel 


THE  ONLY  SON  OF   HIS  MOTHER    107 

apartment  the  Comte  paced  slowly  to  and  fro, 
with  bent  head,  and  fingers  that  locked  and 
unlocked  behind  his  back.  In  the  heavy  chair 
before  the  fire,  Pazzini  seemed  shrunk  to  but 
half  his  normal  size,  a  mere  rack  of  clothes, 
two  lean  white  hands,  that  gripped  the  drag- 
ons' heads  upon  the  arms  of  the  fauteuil,  and 
a  pale  stern  face  that  looked  into  the  smoul- 
dering embers,  and  beyond  —  immeasurably 
beyond. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ? "  he  asked,  after  a 
time. 

"  Shall  I  ever  know  ?  "  broke  out  de  Viller- 
sexel  irritably.  "  Pe'pin  had  been  to  a  chil- 
dren's party  below  there  on  the  entresol,  at  the 
English  lawyer's.  He  and  his  imbecile  of  a 
bonne  were  entering  the  ascenseur.  She  goes 
from  spasm  to  spasm,  so  there  is  no  telling. 
But  it  seems  they  had  given  Pepin  a  toy  —  the 
English  —  and  she  wished  to  carry  it  and  he 
refused.  So  between  them  —  God  knows  how  ! 
—  it  slipped  from  their  hands  as  the  ascenseur 
cleared  the  gate  —  and  Pe'pin  stooped  to  catch 
it  —  and  fell.  He  died  at  midnight." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
snapping  of  the  logs  in  the  fireplace  and  the 


108    THE  ONLY  SON  OF  HIS  MOTHER 

almost  inaudible  footfalls  of  the  Comte  on  the 
thick  carpet.  Then  — 

"  He  was  his  mother's  son,"  said  Pazzini. 

"And  mine,"  replied  the  other.  "The  last 
of  the  de  Villersexel." 

He  paused  abruptly  by  a  little  table,  and 
took  up  a  handful  of  splintered  wood  and  tan- 
gled catgut. 

"  The  toy  that  killed  him,"  he  added  in  a 
low  voice,  and  hurled  the  fragments  over  Paz- 
zini's  shoulder  into  the  embers.  A  thin^tongue 
of  flame  caught  at  them  as  they  fell,  and  broke 
into  a  brilliant  blaze.  Pazzini  leaned  forward 
suddenly  and  peered  at  the  little  conflagra- 
tion. 

"  A  violin,"  he  said. 

"  A  violin,"  echoed  the  Comte.  "Think  of 
dying  for  a  violin  !  " 

Pazzini  made  no  reply.  His  eyes  had  met 
those  of  the  portrait  over  the  chimney  —  and 
he  was  smiling. 


The  Tuition  of 
Dodo  Chapuis 


THE  situation  was  best  summed  up  in  the 
epigram  of  little  Sacha  Vitzoff,  the  sec- 
ond secretary  at  the  Russian  Embassy, 
who  said  that  there  was  room  enough  in  Paris 
for  two  and  a  half  millions  of  people  and  Ga- 
brielle  de  Poirier,  or  for  two  and  a  half  mil- 
lions of  people  and  Thais  de  Tremonceau,  but 
that  even  the  place  de  la  Concorde  was  not 
sufficiently  wide  for  Gabrielle  and   Thai's   to 
pass  without  treading  on  each  others'  toes. 

It  was  a  rivalry  of  long  standing,  nourished 
by  innumerable  petty  jealousies  and  carefully 


no    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

treasured  affronts.  Gabrielle  was  tall  and  very 
slender,  with  a  clear,  pale  complexion,  and  hair 
of  a  curious  dark  bronze  that  in  certain  lights 
showed  a  hint  of  olive  green.  So  Tha'is  called 
her  the  Asparagus  Woman  —  la  Femme  As- 
perge.  Thai's  was  short  and  anything  but  slim, 
and  brown  of  hair,  eyes,  and  skin.  So  Gabri- 
elle called  her  the  Mud-Ball  —  la  Boule  de 
Boue.  And  neither  appellation  was  pleasing 
to  the  object  thereof. 

These  two  great  luminaries  of  the  Parisian 
demi-monde,  blazing  crimson  with  mutual  jeal- 
ousy, followed,  for  six  months  of  the  year,  a 
kind  of  right-triangular  orbit,  comprising  the 
restaurant  of  Armenonville,  the  race-course  of 
Auteuil,  and  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  and  embracing 
divers  other  points  of  common  interest,  —  the 
Palais  de  Glace,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  the 
tea-room  of  the  Elysee  Palace  Hotel,  the  Fo- 
lies-Marigny,  the  Salon,  and  the  Horse-Show  ; 
and,  individually,  Gabrielle's  apartment  on  the 
avenue  Kleber,  and  Thai's's  little  hotel  on  the 
rue  de  la  Faisanderie.  Between  the  last  two, 
as  regards  situation,  cost,  and  general  equip- 
ment, there  was  not  a  straw's  weight  of  differ- 
ence, save  in  the  estimation  of  their  respective 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    111 

occupants.  The  apartment  had  been  rented 
for  a  term  of  years,  and  furnished  and  deco- 
rated, and  supplied  with  four  servants,  by  a 
Russian  millionaire,  and  the  same  was  true  of 
the  hotel  in  every,  save  one,  detail,  —  the  de 
Tremonceau's  millionaire  was  a  Brazilian.  For 
the  rest,  Gabrielle  was  of  a  literary  bent,  and 
wrote  occasional  feuilletons  for  the  Journal, 
and  short  stories,  staggering  with  emotion,  for 
the  Gil  Bias  Illustre' :  something  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  Thai's,  was  stupid  and  all  there  was 
of  the  most  ignoble.  Thais  herself  was  a  spo- 
radic feature  at  the  Folies-Bergere,  where  she 
sang  songs  of  a  melody  and  a  propriety  equally 
doubtful,  bunching  up  her  silk  skirts  at  the  end 
of  the  refrain,  with  her  side  toward  the  audi- 
ence, and  winking,  with  brazen  effrontery,  at  a 
spot  midway  between  the  heads  of  the  bald 
gentleman  in  the  third  row  and  the  wide-eyed 
little  St.  Cyrien  across  the  aisle.  The  which 
Gabrielle  found  to  be  the  trade  of  a  camel. 

Each  had  her  horses,  and  her  carriage,  in 
which  she  was  whirled  three  times  up  and  three 
times  down  the  allee  des  Acacias  each  noon  of 
the  season,  and  again  at  five  o'clock,  and  each 
spent  hours  daily  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix,  trailing 


112    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

long  skirts  of  tulle  and  satin  before  the  mirrors 
of  the  men-milliners,  and  pricing  strings  of 
pearls  in  the  private  offices  of  servile  jewelers. 
Each  was  deftly  veneered,  as  it  were,  with  the 
bearing  of  the  grande  dame,  except  at  the 
moment  when  she  chanced  to  pass  the  other, 
or  refer  to  her  in  the  course  of  conversation. 
Then  the  irrepressible  past  came  suddenly  to 
the  fore  in  a  word  or  a  gesture,  which  babbled 
of  Gabrielle's  early  experience  in  the  work- 
room of  the  very  Paquin  she  was  now  patron- 
izing, and  of  Thai's's  salad  days  as  assistant  to 
a  florist  on  the  grand  boulevards. 

Honors  were  even  between  the  two  when 
Dodo  Chapuis  first  came  up  to  pay  homage  to 
the  queen  capital,  of  which  he  had  been  dream- 
ing for  four  years.  He  was  only  nineteen,  the 
son  of  a  great  manufacturer  of  Aries,  who  had 
lived  severely  and  frugally,  and,  dying  a  wid- 
ower, left  a  cool  half  million  of  francs  to  be 
divided  between  Dodo  and  his  sister  Louise. 
There  seems  to  have  been  no  trace  of  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  either  as  to  the  respective  uses 
to  which  their  dazzling  inheritances  should  be 
applied.  Louise  promptly  accepted  a  young 
playwright  with  a  record  of  fourteen  rejected 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    113 

revues,  to  whose  suit  her  father  had  been  most 
violently  opposed ;  and  Dodo,  as  promptly, 
took  out  a  letter  of  credit  for  fifty  thousand 
francs  and  departed  for  Paris  on  the  morning 
following  the  funeral. 

The  story  of  Dodo's  first  six  weeks  in  the 
capital  is  the  story  of  full  a  million  of  his 
kind.  A  pocket  filled  with  gold  and  a  mind 
emptied  of  responsibility;  youth,  health,  and 
craving  for  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge, 
—  these  foundations  given,  the  aspect  of  the 
structure  erected  thereupon  is  inevitable. 

Dodo  made  his  ddbut  at  the  Moulin  Rouge  at 
eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  his  first  day  in 
Paris.  Despite  appearances,  this  did  not  mean 
that  he  was  wholly  a  fool.  One  must  remember 
that  it  was  the  evening  of  the  first  day.  He 
walked  leagues,  it  seemed  to  him,  around  the 
crowded  promenade,  half  stifled  by  an  atmo- 
sphere composed  of  equal  parts  of  stale  beer, 
cigarette  smoke,  and  cheap  perfumery.  He 
watched  a  quadrille  made  up  of  shrill  shrieks, 
rouge,  and  an  abundance  of  white  lace.  He 
tossed  balls  into  numbered  holes  in  a  long 
board,  and  won  a  variety  of  prizes  of  pseudo- 
Japanese  make,  which  he  immediately  pre- 


114    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

sented  to  the  exponents  of  the  aforesaid  quad- 
rille. He  squandered  a  louis  in  firing  a  rifle 
at  paper  rabbits  passing  in  monotonous  suc- 
cession over  three  feet  of  sickly  green  hillside. 
He  bought  a  citronade  for  a  girl  with  blue  eyes, 
and  a  menthe  glaciale  for  another  with  brown  ; 
and,  at  the  end,  rebuffing  the  proffered  services 
of  a  guide,  who,  by  reason  of  his  new  tan  over- 
coat, and  to  his  intense  disgust,  addressed  him 
in  English,  he  returned  to  the  Hotel  du  Rhin 
in  a  state  of  profound  despondency. 

But  that,  as  we  have  said,  was  on  his  first 
evening.  On  the  third,  he  had  engaged  a  table 
in  advance  at  Maxim's,  and  supped  in  state  on 
caviar,  langouste  a  TAmencaine,  and  Ruinart. 
And  with  Antoinette  Feria.  It  was  not  much 
of  an  achievement,  but  it  showed  progress. 

On  the  following  day  Dodo  went  to  Auteuil, 
won  twelve  francs  fifty  on  a  ten-franc  bet,  and 
dined  at  Armenonville.  It  was  here  that  Su- 
zanne Derval  looked  cross-eyed  at  him,  fin- 
gered her  pearls,  and  remarked  that  he  had 
beaux  yeux.  Dodo  might  be  said  to  be  fairly 
launched. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  note  the  further 
stages  of  his  initiation.  They  were  strictly 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    115 

conventional,  and,  under  the  circumstances, 
it  was  remarkable  that,  at  the  end  of  six  weeks, 
he  had  drawn  but  seven  thousand  francs  on  his 
letter  of  credit,  and  still  retained  his  enthusi- 
asms. It  is  not  every  one  from  the  provinces 
for  whom  Paris  reserves  her  supreme  surprise 
for  the  forty-third  day. 

It  chanced  to  be  the  first  evening  of  the  de 
Tremonceau's  annual  engagement  at  the  Folies- 
Bergere,  and  for  three  days  the  eloquent  legend 
"  La  Belle  Thai's "  had  been  glaring  at  the 
boulevard  throngs  in  huge  block  letters  from 
the  posters  on  the  colonnes  Morris.  Dodo, 
meanwhile,  had  made  many  friends  among  men 
of  tastes  similar  to  his  own  —  a  feat  which  is 
curiously  easy  of  accomplishment  in  Paris, 
when  one  has  forty-odd  thousand  francs  and 
a  desire  for  company.  Of  these  was  Sacha 
Vitzoff,  who,  on  occasion,  had  five  louis,  and 
invariably  spent  them  at  once  upon  his  friends, 
before  he  should  be  tempted  to  put  them  to  a 
worse  use. 

So  Sacha  bought  the  box,  and  they  sat,  five 
of  them,  through  two  hours  of  biograph,  and 
trained  dogs,  and  Neapolitan  ballet,  until  the 
liveried  attendants  thrust  cards  bearing  the 


116    THE  TUITION    OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

number  19  into  rococo  frames  at  the  side  of 
the  proscenium,  and  the  orchestra  plunged  into 
Sarasate's  "  Zapateado,"  and  various  stout  gen- 
tlemen wrestled  with  mechanical  devices  for 
supplying  opera-glasses,  and,  conquering,  sat 
back  in  their  seats  and  grunted.  Then  the 
drop  rose  upon  a  pale  pink  and  gray  libel  on 
Versailles,  and  La  Belle  Thai's  flashed  out  from 
the  wing,  with  a  red  silk  scarf  bound  about  her 
head  and  a  toreador's  hat  perched  on  one  side. 
There  was  no  denying  it.  Despite  her  rouge, 
despite  her  four  decades  (an  eternity  in  Paris), 
La  Thai's  was  very  beautiful.  Dodo  forgot  his 
cigarette,  his  champagne,  and  his  companions. 
He  followed  every  swish  of  her  spangled  skirts, 
every  click  of  her  castanets,  every  tap  of  her 
pointed  shoes,  every  movement  of  her  gleam- 
ing shoulders  and  her  lithe,  white  arms.  This, 
then,  was  the  reality  of  his  dream,  the  soul  and 
substance  of  his  vision,  the  essence  of  the 
great  city  that  had  drawn  him  like  a  magnet 
from  his  humdrum  bourgeois  life  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  Aries,  —  the  ineffable,  eternal  Woman, 
poured  like  oil  upon  the  smouldering  fire  of 
boyish  imagination  !  His  slender  hands  gripped 
the  plush  of  the  box-rail  feverishly,  his  eyes 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    117 

widened  and  brightened,  his  lips  parted,  and 
his  breath  came  short.  Then,  suddenly,  there 
was  a  final  clash  of  tambourines  and  castanets 
which  brought  La  Belle  Thai's  to  a  standstill, 
her  head  flung  back,  and  one  arm  high  in  air  ! 

"  She  has  charm  —  even  now  !  "  said  Sacha, 
emptying  his  glass. 

Three  days  later,  it  was  known  to  all  the 
world  that  concerns  itself  with  such  things  that 
Dodo  Chapuis  was  latest  in  the  train  of  victims 
to  the  fascinations  of  Thai's  de  Tremonceau. 
One  cannot  pretend  to  say  what  she  saw  in  him 
to  divert  her  attention  from  richer  and  maturer 
men.  He  was  handsome  —  yes  —  but  the 
Comte  d'Ys  was  handsomer.  He  was  rich, 
as  such  things  go,  and  for  the  moment.  But 
he  had  no  wit,  poor  Dodo  —  and  as  for  money, 
which,  after  all,  is  the  only  other  thing  which 
counts  in  the  demi-monde,  what  were  forty  thou- 
sand francs  to  one  authorized  to  draw,  ad  libi- 
tum, upon  a  Brazilian  multi-millionaire  ?  No, 
evidently,  it  was  one  of  those  strange  whims  to 
which  the  slaves  of  self-interest  are  sometimes 
subject.  The  de  Tremonceau  had  nothing  to 
gain,  and  everything  to  lose,  for,  certainly,  her 
Brazilian  miche  would  have  been  ill  pleased 


118    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

to  know  that  Dodo  Chapuis  was  riding  daily 
six  times  up  and  six  times  down  the  allee  des 
Acacias  in  the  victoria  of  La  Belle  Thai's.  As 
it  chanced,  he  was  in  Buenos  Ayres.  Still, 
he  might  return  without  warning.  He  had  an 
ignoble  habit  of  doing  that.  But  when  those 
sufficiently  intimate  suggested  this  to  Thai's 
she  only  laughed,  and  sang  a  snatch  from  La 
Belle  Helfcne  :  — 

"  Si  par  megarde  il  se  hasarde 

De  rentrer  chez  lui  tout  a  coup, 

II  est  le  maitre,  mais  cyesty  peut-$tre, 

Imprudent  et  de  mauvais  gotit !  " 

As  for  Dodo,  he  was  in  Elysium.  He  was 
singularly  innocent,  Dodo,  with  his  smooth 
russet  hair,  and  his  steady  gray  eyes,  and  his 
straight,  fine  nose,  and  his  sensitive,  patrician 
mouth ;  and,  believe  it  or  not  as  you  will,  he 
cherished  the  project  of  marrying  Thai's  de 
Tremonceau  !  He  had  fed  himself  on  the 
poetry  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  giving  doubtful 
words  and  phrases  his  own  interpretation,  from 
lack  of  experience,  and,  despite  the  lesson  of 
"  Don  Paez  "  and  "  La  Nuit  d'Octobre,"  he 
believed  in  the  power  of  trust  to  hold  another 
true.  Alas,  he  was  hopelessly  conventional ! 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    119 

There  is  no  one  of  us  poor  moths  who  is  con- 
tent with  seeing  his  fellow  singe  his  wings. 
No,  each  must  plunge  into  the  radius  of  con- 
suming heat  and  learn  its  peril  for  himself. 
All  of  which  is,  no  doubt,  a  wise  ruling.  For 
if  experience  could  be  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  and  accepted  on  its  face  value, 
then  the  child  of  the  third  or  fourth  genera- 
tion would  be  a  demi-god,  or  even  a  full  one, 
and  there  would  be  no  further  attraction  in 
heaven,  and  no  further  menace  in  hell.  The 
which  morsel  of  morality  may  be  allowed  to 
pass,  if  only  for  contrast's  sake.  We  were 
speaking  of  Thai's  de  Tre'monceau. 

Dodo's  Elysium  lasted  longer  than  such 
mirages  are  wont  to  do.  For  a  full  month  he 
basked  in  the  sultry  sunshine  of  the  de  Tr£- 
monceau's  smiles,  dined  almost  nightly  in  the 
rue  de  la  Faisanderie,  occupied  a  fauteuil  at 
the  Folies  while  she  whisked  her  spangled  skirts 
and  sang  "  Hola  !  Hola  !  "  to  Sarasate's  music, 
supped  with  her  afterwards  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris 
or  Paillard's,  and  paid  the  addition,  and  tipped 
the  gargon,  and  the  maitre  d 'hotel  and  the  chef 
d'orchestre,  as  liberally  as  if  he  had  had  a  mil- 
lion francs  instead  of  a  dwindling  twenty  thou- 


120    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

sand.  And  the  delirium  might  have  lasted  even 
longer  had  it  not  been  for  Louise  Chapuis. 

No  one  ever  knew  who  told.  There  is  a  wire- 
less telegraphy  in  such  cases  which  defies  de- 
tection. Suffice  it  to  say  that,  one  morning, 
the  Hotel  de  Choiseuil  numbered  Mademoi- 
selle Chapuis  among  its  guests,  and  that,  as 
this  name  was  inscribed  upon  the  register, 
the  Fates  rang  up  the  curtain  on  the  final  act 
of  the  brief  comedy  of  the  tuition  of  Dodo 
Chapuis. 

Where,  when,  and  how  Louise  contrived,  in 
three  days  of  Paris,  to  strike,  full  and  firm- 
fingered,  the  keynote  of  the  situation  remained 
a  mystery  which  none  of  those  concerned  was 
capable  of  solving.  In  all  the  capital  there  was 
but  one  person  competent  to  deal  conclusively 
with  the  situation.  That  person  was  Gabrielle 
de  Poirier,  and  to  Gabrielle  de  Poirier  Louise 
Chapuis  applied. 

There  could  have  been  no  stranger  meeting 
than  this  between  the  young  Arlesienne,  with 
her  blue  eyes,  and  her  embarrassed  hands,  and 
her  gown  that  all  the  plage  turned  to  look  at, 
because  it  was  in  the  fashion  of  more  than 
yester-year,  and  the  cold,  stately  leader  of  the 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    121 

demi-monde,  with  her  air  of  languid  ease,  her 
shimmer  of  diamonds,  and  her  slow,  tired  voice, 
roused  to  interest  for  the  moment  by  this  singu- 
larly sudden  and  imperative  demand  upon  her 
good-will  and  ingenuity. 

Louise  found  Gabrielle  half  buried  among 
the  cushions  of  a  great  divan,  with  a  yellow- 
backed  novel  perched,  tent-like,  upon  her  knee. 
For  once,  the  demi-mondaine  was  alone,  bored 
to  extinction  by  the  blatant  ribaldry  of  Octave 
Mirbeau.  She  had  fingered  the  simply-lettered 
card  of  her  unknown  visitor  for  a  full  minute, 
before  bidding  her  valet-de-pied  admit  her.  A 
whim,  a  craving  for  novelty  —  who  knows 
what?  The  Open  Sesame  had  been  spoken, 
and  now,  in  the  half-light  of  late  afternoon,  her 
caller  stood  before  her. 

"  Be  seated,"  said  Gabrielle  courteously. 
"  Be  seated,  Ma—  ?  " 

"  —  Demoiselle,"  replied  Louise,  complying 
with  the  invitation. 

There  was  a  brief  pause.  Each  woman 
studied  the  other  curiously.  Then  Louise  be- 
gan to  speak,  at  first  timidly. 

"  You  think  it  strange,  no  doubt,  madame, 
this  visit  of  mine.  Let  me  be  quite  candid. 


122    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

I  come  to  ask  a  favor  of  you  —  I,  who  have  no 
right,  save  the  right  of  one  woman  to  crave 
assistance  from  another.  I  have  a  brother  "  — 

"Faith  of  God!  "  said Gabrielle,  lightly,  "so 
have  I.  A  poor  sample,  if  you  will !  " 

Her  flippancy  seemed  suddenly  to  lend 
the  other  fresh  courage.  She  leaned  forward 
eagerly,  clasping  her  gray-gloved  hands  upon 
her  knee. 

"  But  mine,"  she  said,  "  is  but  a  boy.  He 
has  come  to  Paris,  seeking  to  know  the  world, 
and,  lately,  he  has  become  the  friend  of  Made- 
moiselle Thai's  de  Tremonceau." 

"  Zut !  "  put  in  Gabrielle.  "  You  say  well 
that  it  is  but  a  boy  !  " 

"  Is  there  need  to  tell  you,"  continued  Louise, 
without  heeding  the  sneer,  "  what  this  means 
to  me  ?  Is  there  need  to  tell  you  what  it  means 
to  him  ?  " 

"  My  faith,  no ! "  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Poirier.  "It  is  acquainted  with  me,  that 
story.  The  end  is  not  beautiful !  " 

"  Tout  simplement,"  said  her  visitor, "  I  have 
come  to  Paris  to  bring  him  back,  to  show  him 
the  folly  of  his  way.  But  I  alone  am  power- 
less. You  —  you  who  are  more  admired,  more 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    123 

beautiful,  more  clever  than  this  Mademoiselle 
de  Tre'monceau  "  —  (Oh,  Louise  !)  —  "  you 
alone  can  aid  me  to  rescue  him." 

Gabrielle  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly,  and 
let  her  lids  droop  with  an  air  of  unutterable 
boredom. 

"  Truly,  mademoiselle,"  she  drawled,  "  I  nei- 
ther see  in  what  fashion  I  can  assist  you,  nor 
why,  in  any  event,  I  should  concern  myself 
with  this  affair.  If  your  brother  has  such 
taste"  — 

"  Oh,  madame,  I  know  I  have  no  right," 
broke  in  Louise.  "  But  you,  of  all  women  in 
Paris,  alone  have  the  power  to  win  him  from 
her." 

"And  when  I  have  won  him,"  demanded 
Gabrielle,  "  what  then  ?  Do  you  think  your 
precious  brother  will  fare  better  with  me  than 
with  the  de  Tre'monceau  ?  " 

Her  calm  was  broken  for  a  moment  by  a 
flash  of  anger. 

"The  world  is  full  of  fools,"  she  added. 
"  One  more  or  less  is  no  great  matter.  I  am 
not  a  Rescue  Society,  mademoiselle.  Let  your 
brother  go  his  way.  His  best  cure  will  be  ef- 
fected by  the  woman  herself.  When  his  money 


124    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

is  gone,  there  will  be  no  need  to  win  him  from 
her." 

The  sneer  sent  the  blood  racing  to  the  oth- 
er's cheeks.  She  had  been  counting,  as  she 
realized  with  a  pang  of  mortification,  upon  some 
Quixotic  quality  which  her  reading  had  taught 
lay  always  dormant,  even  in  such  a  woman  as 
Gabrielle  de  Poirier,  —  some  innate  nobility, 
ready  to  spring  into  activity  at  the  bidding  of 
such  an  appeal  as  she  had  just  made.  And, 
too,  beneath  all  her  anxiety,  she  had  believed 
that  Thai's  loved  her  brother,  that  his  peril  lay 
not  so  much  in  her  making  use  of  him  and  then 
flinging  him  aside,  as  in  the  existence  of  actual 
affection  between  him  and  a  woman  whom, 
even  as  his  wife,  society  would  not  recognize. 
This  brutal  intrusion  of  money  into  the  discus- 
sion, this  flippant  classification  of  Dodo  with 
a  world  full  of  fools  who  flung  away  honor 
and  reputation  for  a  passing  fancy,  only  to  be 
flung  away  themselves  in  turn,  suddenly  seemed 
to  lay  clear  the  whole  situation,  in  all  its  sor- 
did vulgarity,  and  with  the  revelation  came  a 
white  rage  against  this  woman  who  was  only 
another  of  the  same  kind.  She  despised  her- 
self for  having  stooped  to  ask  her  aid,  and  a 
fury  of  wounded  pride  blazed  in  her  reply. 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    125 

"  You  know  yourself  well,  madame !  "  she 
said.  "  No,  surely  my  brother  would  fare  no  bet- 
ter with  you,  though  that  was  not  what  I  meant 
to  ask.  I  thought,  in  my  folly,  that,  perhaps, 
in  the  life  of  such  a  one  as  you,  there  might 
come  moments  when  you  longed  to  be  other 
than  you  are,  moments  when  you  would  like  to 
think  that  among  all  the  men  you  have  played 
with,  ruined,  and  spurned,  there  were  one  or 
two  who  could  speak  and  think  of  you  as  men 
speak  and  think  of  honest  women,  who  could 
say  that  you  had  been  an  ennobling  influence 
in  their  lives,  and  whose  word  would  count 
upon  the  side  of  good  when  you  come  to  an- 
swer for  the  evil  you  have  done.  I  thought 
that,  not  for  money's  sake  or  vanity's,  you 
might  wish  to  win  my  brother  from  this  woman, 
and,  when  you  had  won  him,  teach  him  how 
sordid,  how  wicked,  how  futile  such  a  life  is, 
and  send  him  back  to  decency  —  a  better  man ! 
I  see  how  mistaken  I  was  in  judging  you. 
There  is  no  compassion  in  you,  no  nobler  in- 
stinct than  self-interest.  Your  motives  are  the 
same  as  hers,  love  of  admiration  and  love  of 
gold,  —  and,  perhaps,  less  worthy.  I  cannot 
say.  Hers,  at  least,  I  can  only  suspect :  yours 


126   THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

I  have  had  from  your  own  lips.  Had  my  bro- 
ther been  more  than  the  poor  weak  boy  he  is, 
had  he  been  brilliant,  powerful,  or  a  millionaire, 
it  would  never  have  been  necessary  for  me  to 
ask  you  to  win  him  from  her.  No,  madame, 
for  you  would  have  done  so  of  your  own  ac- 
cord !  " 

Now,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  diplomacy, 
and  there  is  such  a  thing  as  luck,  and  of  the 
former  Louise  Chapuis  had  not  an  atom.  An 
impulse,  made  apparently  reasonable  by  pure 
imagination,  led  her  to  seek  out  Gabrielle,  and 
had  she  found  her,  as  her  fancy  had  painted 
her,  readily  moved  by  the  appeal  of  honest  af- 
fection and  confidence,  she  was  competent  to 
have  won  her  end.  Louise  was  one  of  the  peo- 
ple who,  in  foreseeing  a  dispute,  invent  the  re- 
plies to  their  own  questions,  and  who,  if  the 
actual  answers  accord  with  those  preconceived, 
will  emerge  from  the  ordeal  triumphant,  but 
who  lack  the  diplomat's  gift  of  adapting  the 
line  of  argument  to  that  of  unexpected  retort. 
Confronted  with  a  state  of  affairs  wholly  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  she  had  supposed  ex- 
istent, her  sole  resource  was  in  this  outburst 
of  disappointment  and  reproach,  honest,  but 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    127 

inutile  as  the  clamor  of   a  baffled  baby.     So 
much  for  diplomacy. 

But,  as  we  have  said,  there  is  also  such  a 
thing  as  luck.  Gabrielle  de  Poirier  was  insuf- 
ferably bored.  Her  Russian  was  in  Moscow, 
her  recent  tips  at  Auteuil  had  proved  disas- 
trous, her  latest  feuilleton  had  been  rejected. 
For  six  hours  she  had  been  buried  among  the 
cushions  of  the  divan,  clad  materially  in  light 
pink  but  mentally  in  deepest  blue,  skipping 
from  page  to  page  of  a  novel  that  was  not 
amusing,  and  confronted  every  ten  minutes  by 
the  recurrent  realization  that  the  next  event 
on  her  calendar  was  a  dinner  at  the  Cafe'  de 
Paris,  which  would  not  come  for  the  eternity 
of  twenty-seven  hours !  Despite  her  ungra- 
cious reception  of  Louise,  she  had  been  grate- 
ful for  the  diversion,  and  hardly  had  she 
sneered  at  Dodo's  position  before  she  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  fell  to  studying  the  situation  seri- 
ously. Louise,  pausing,  breathless,  after  her 
tirade,  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  made  no 
reply,  looking  straight  before  her  with  her 
great  eyes  half  closed,  and  put  down  her  si- 
lence as  equivalent  to  admission  of  the  charges 
hurled  against  her.  The  truth  of  the  matter 


128    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 


was,  however,  that  Gabrielle  had  not  heard 
one  word  of  her  visitor's  impassioned  denun- 
ciation ! 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  the  demi- 
mondaine  looked  up. 

"  Where  does  your  brother  live  ?  "  she  asked, 
touching  an  electric  button  at  her  side,  "  and 
what  is  his  first  name  ?  " 

"  At  the  Hotel  du  Rhin,"  stammered  Louise, 
"  and  his  name  is  Do —  I  should  say  Charles, 
—  Charles  Chapuis.  I  am  at  the  Hotel  de 
Choiseuil." 

"  Bon ! "  said  the  other.  "  If  you  will  go 
home,  mademoiselle,  and  keep  your  own  coun- 
sel, I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  you  will 
shortly  have  your  brother  back." 

Louise  stepped  forward  impulsively. 

"  Oh,  madame  !  "  —  she  began. 

But  just  then  the  valet-de-pied  appeared  at 
the  door,  and  Gabrielle,  taking  up  her  novel, 
flounced  back  among  the  cushions. 

"Bon  jour,  mademoiselle,"  she  said,  without 
looking  at  Louise.  "  Achille,  la  porte  !  And 
send  Mathilde  to  me." 

The  conference  between  mistress  and  maid 
was  brief  but  eloquent. 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    129 

"Who,"  demanded  Gabrielle,  "is  Dodo 
Chapuis  ? " 

"The  young  monsieur  of  Boule-de-Boue," 
responded  Mathilde  promptly. 

"  Parfaitement.  I  needed  to  refresh  my 
memory.  And  how  long  is  it  since  we  cabled 
the  last  tuyau  ?  " 

"  Eight  weeks,  at  least,  madame  —  before 
the  coming  of  Monsieur  Chapuis." 

"Bon!"  said  Gabrielle.  "We  cable  an- 
other tip  at  once." 

(For  it  may  be  noted,  in  passing,  that  she 
had  one  source  of  income  which  La  Belle 
Thais  little  suspected !) 

"What  does  Boule-de-Boue  do  to-night?" 
she  demanded  again. 

"Dines  at  home  with  Monsieur  Chapuis," 
replied  the  omniscient  Mathilde,  "dances  at 
the  FoP  Berg'  at  eleven,  sups  at  Paillard's  with 
Monsieur  Chapuis." 

(For  it  may  also  be  noted,  in  passing,  that 
the  maid  of  La  Belle  Thais  had  one  source  of 
income  which  her  mistress  totally  ignored  !) 

"  Tres  bien  ! "  said  Gabrielle.  "  Now  a  pen 
and  paper,  the  inkstand,  envelopes,  sealing 
wax,  and  a  telegraph  form,  and  write  as  I  tell 
thee." 


130    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

For  ten  minutes  Mathilde  wrote  rapidly,  and 
then  spread  the  results  of  her  exertions  out 
before  her,  in  the  shape  of  two  notes  and  a 
cablegram,  and  read  them  aloud  triumphantly. 
The  first  note  was  directed  to  Monsieur  Charles 
Chapuis,  at  the  Hotel  du  Rhin,  place  Ven- 
dome :  — 

"  If  Monsieur  Chapuis  is  a  man  of  honor," 
it  ran  briefly,  "  he  will  break  all  engagements, 
"  however  important,  for  this  evening,  and  pre- 
"  sent  himself  chez  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  de 
"  Poirier  at  seven  o'clock,  on  a  matter  inti- 
"  mately  touching  the  good  fame  of  his  family. 
"  The  sister  of  Monsieur,  Mademoiselle  Louise 
"  Chapuis,  is  chez  Mademoiselle  de  Poirier." 

The  second  note  was  addressed  to  Made- 
moiselle Thai's  de  Trdmonceau,  at  27  bis,  rue 
de  la  Faisanderie. 

"  A  friend  advises  Mademoiselle  Thai's  de 
"  Tremonceau  that  Monsieur  Charles  Chapuis 
"  dines  with  Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  de  Poirier 
"  this  evening  at  half  past  seven." 

And  the  cablegram  was  to  Senor  Miguel 
Cevasco,  Reconquista  21,  Buenos- Ayres,  Re- 
publique  Argentine. 

"  19  rides  in  the  carriage  of  52.     26." 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    131 

The  point  of  which  observation  lay  in  the 
fact  that  Dodo  confessed  to  nineteen,  and 
Seiior  Miguel  to  fifty-two,  and  Gabrielle  to 
twenty-six. 

It  was  a  bold  play,  and  one  foredoomed 
to  failure  unless  each  link  in  the  chain  held 
true.  But  Mademoiselle  de  Poirier  was  no 
novice,  and  experience  had  long  since  taught 
her  that  success  is  the  child  of  audacity ;  so, 
ten  minutes  later,  Achille  was  speeding,  in  one 
cab,  toward  the  place  Vendome,  pausing  only 
at  the  bureau  de  te'le'graphe  on  the  corner  of  the 
rue  Pierre  Charron  and  the  avenue  Marceau, 
and  Mathilde  was  speeding  in  another  toward 
the  rue  de  la  Faisanderie  :  and  Gabrielle  herself 
was  making  life  not  worth  living  for  Louis,  her 
long-suffering  maitre-d  'hotel. 

The  upshot  of  this  triple  commotion  was 
that,  as  the  clock  on  her  mantel  struck  seven, 
Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  de  Poirier  was  pos- 
ing on  a  chaise-longue  in  correct  imitation  of 
David's  "  Madame  Recamier,"  except  for  a 
wonderful  black  gown,  when  Achille  announced 
Monsieur  Charles  Chapuis. 

Dodo  entered  the  room  in  immaculate  even- 
ing dress,  but  with  a  touch  of  embarrassment 


132    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

in  his  manner  which  betrayed  his  years.  H< 
was  good  to  look  upon,  was  Dodo,  tall,  straight, 
and  slight,  with  the  ruddy  olive  skin,  the  firm, 
square  fling  of  chest  and  shoulder,  the  nar- 
rowness of  waist,  and  the  confident  swing  of 
long,  slender,  but  sinewy  legs  with  which  one 
is  blessed  at  nineteen  in  Bouches-du-Rhone. 
Gabrielle,  taking  note  of  him  from  under  her 
covert,  languid  lids,  was  compelled,  for  once, 
to  mental  candor. 

"  I  comprehend  Thai's,"  she  said  to  herself, 
but  to  Dodo,  "  Monsieur,  I  felicitate  you. 
You  have  the  true  spirit  of  chivalry." 

"  My  sister  "  —  began  Dodo. 

"  Is,  no  doubt,  at  the  Hotel  de  Choiseuil," 
answered  Gabrielle,  coolly,  fanning  herself. 
"  In  any  event  she  is  not  here.  Oh,  she  was 
here  —  yes  ;  but  she  had  gone  —  gone  before 
I  sent  you  the  note.  Be  seated,  monsieur." 

Dodo  selected  a  chair,  dropped  into  it,  and 
awaited  developments  in  silence.  Six  weeks 
before,  he  would  have  demanded  in  a  passion 
the  meaning  of  this  subterfuge.  But  whatever 
might  be  said  of  La  Belle  Thai's,  one  learned 
diplomacy  in  her  company. 

"  You  are  surprised,  monsieur  !  " 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO   CHAPUIS    133 

"  I  am  infinitely  surprised,  madame,"  he 
agreed,  with  charming  candor. 

"  Shall  we  be  frank  with  each  other  ?  "  asked 
Gabrielle,  pleasantly. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  only  way,"  said  Dodo. 
"  Eh  bien,  I  am  infinitely  surprised,  madame  ; 
first,  to  see  my  sister's  name  in  connection  with 
yours  at  all,  and,  second,  to  find  that  you  have 
been  lying  to  me." 

"  She  came  to  ask  me  to  rescue  you  from 
the  toils  of  Thai's  de  Tre'monceau." 

Despite  his  elaborate  self-control,  Dodo 
flushed  crimson. 

"  I  think  we  had  best  drop  the  discussion 
here,"  he  said,  rising.  "  There  can  be  no  pos- 
sible profit  in  continuing  it.  If  my  sister  was 
here  at  all"  — 

"Her  card  is  there  on  the  table,"  put  in 
Gabrielle,  pointing  with  her  fan. 

"  Pardon.  I  should  not  have  permitted  my- 
self the  insinuation.  I  accept  your  statement, 
and  simply  say  that  it  was  an  unwarrantable 
intrusion  on  her  part.  For  you,  madame,  I  have 
only  admiration.  Your  compliance  "  — 

"  It  was  not  that,"  said  Gabrielle,  shortly. 
"  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  less  important  to 


134    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

me  than  your  sister's  wishes.  But  I  dislike 
Mademoiselle  de  Tre'monceau." 

"  That,"  said  Dodo,  with  exaggerated  cour- 
tesy, "  can  only  be  a  matter  of  opinion.  / 
admire  Mademoiselle  de  Tremonceau  enor- 
mously." 

"  The  force  of  admiration  is  undoubtedly 
strong,"  snapped  Gabrielle,  "  to  reconcile  you 
to  riding  in  another  man's  carriage,  drinking 
another  man's  wine,  dawdling  with  another 
man's  "  — 

"  Assez !  "  said  Dodo. 

Gabrielle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Quite  right,"  she  said.  "You  are  old 
enough  to  see  for  yourself.  I  presume  you 
will  not  return  to  her." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  with  her  in 
fifteen  minutes." 

In  the  distance  an  electric  bell  whirred. 

"Sooner  than  that,  I  think,"  smiled  Ga- 
brielle, and  then  La  Belle  Thai's  was  standing 
at  the  salon  door.  She  was  gowned  in  scarlet, 
with  a  poppy  flaring  in  her  hair,  and,  if  she  had 
but  lent  to  her  dance  at  the  Folies  but  half  the 
fury  of  that  entrance,  the  manager  would,  no 
doubt,  have  tripled  her  already  ample  salary. 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    135 

And,  at  the  instant  of  her  appearance,  as  if 
by  signal,  —  which  indeed  it  was,  —  Louis 
flung  wide  the  opposite  door,  with  a  stately 
"  Monsieur  et  madame  sont  servis,"  and  there, 
gleaming  with  spotless  napery,  silver  shaded 
candlesticks,  and  shimmering  cut  glass,  was  the 
daintiest  of  tables,  set  for  two  ! 

What  Thai's  did  and  what  she  said,  this  is 
not  the  time  or  place  to  detail.  She  was  not 
wanting  in  vocabulary,  the  de  Tremonceau,  nor 
sparing  thereof  in  an  emergency.  A  decade  of 
careful  training  fell  from  her  like  a  discarded 
mantle,  and  she  became  in  an  instant  the  vul- 
gar-tongued  fleuriste  of  the  boulevards.  From 
her  chaise-longue  Gabrielle  smiled  calmly,  the 
picture  of  a  new  Circe,  rejoicing  in  the  success 
of  her  spells.  And,  between  the  two,  Dodo, 
his  hands  clenched  until  the  knuckles  shone 
white,  turned  sick  with  contempt  and  loathing. 
At  the  end  Thais  flung  him  an  unspeakable 
taunt,  and  there  was  a  pause.  Then,  — 

"  Do  you  play  the  black  or  the  red,  mon- 
sieur ?  "  asked  Gabrielle,  sweetly,  with  a  glance 
at  her  own  gown  and  another  at  the  de  Tre'- 
monceau's. 

Dodo  let  his   eyes   run   slowly,  contemptu- 


136    THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS 

ously,  from  the  topmost  ripple  of  her  bronze 
hair  to  the  point  of  her  satin  slipper,  with  the 
felicitous  inspiration  of  seeming  to  take  stock 
of  her  charms  and  to  be  not  over-pleased  there- 
with. Then,  — 

"  I  continue  my  game,  madame  !  "  he  said. 
"  I  play  the  red." 

It  was  the  last,  faint  cry  of  youthful  chivalry, 
disillusioned,  blotted  out,  and  it  was  wasted  on 
Thais  de  Tremonceau. 

"  Tu  penses,  salaud ! "  she  broke  in,  with  a 
laugh.  "Well,  then,  thou  art  well  mistaken. 
Rien  ne  va  plus ! " 

"  He  will  come  back  to  me  !  "  she  cried  to 
her  rival,  as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

"  Perhaps,"  agreed  Gabrielle,  "  but  only  to 
leave  you  again,  in  a  fashion  more  mortifying 
for  him  and  more  calamitous  for  you.  I  sent 
a  cable  to  Buenos  Ayres  this  afternoon." 

She  was  deliberately  flinging  away  the  afore- 
mentioned source  of  income,  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  a  certain  expression  on  the  face  of  La 
Belle  Thais.  But  when  she  saw  it,  she  was 
well  content.  For  the  honors  were  no  longer 
even. 

On  the  avenue  Kleber,  Dodo  hailed  the  first 


THE  TUITION  OF  DODO  CHAPUIS    137 

cab  that  passed,  and  flinging  a  curt  "  Hotel  de 
Choiseuil — au  galop!"  to  the  cocher,  blotted 
himself  into  one  corner,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  It  was  my  first,  but  it  shall  be  my  last  con- 
fidence in  woman,"  he  said.  It  was  neither 
strictly  original  nor  strictly  true,  this,  but  it 
showed  progress. 

For  there  is  such  a  thing  as  diplomacy  and 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  luck,  and  the  fact  that 
his  sister  had  not  an  atom  of  the  former  made 
no  difference  whatever  in  the  tuition  of  Dodo 
Chapuis. 


Le  Pochard 


HIS  applicability  was  evident  to  the  mind 
of  Jean  Fraissigne  from  the  moment 
when  the  camelot  placed  Le  Pochard 
on  a  table  in  front  of  the  Taverne,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  go  through  his  ridiculous  pretense 
of  drinking  from  the  cup  in  his  left  hand  which 
he  rilled  from  the  bottle  in  his  right.  Jean, 
who  was  dawdling  over  a  demi,  and  watching 
the  familiar  ebb  and  flow  of  life  on  the  Boul' 
Miche',  was  at  first  passively  pleased  at  the 
distraction  provided  by  the  appearance  of  the 
toy,  and  then,  of  a  sudden,  consumedly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  progress  of  his  operations.  For 


LE  POCHARD  139 


what  was  plain  to  any  but  a  blind  man  was  the 
fact  that  Le  Pochard  was  the  precise  counter- 
feit of  Jean's  friend  and  comrade,  Gre'goire  — 
Gregoire,  with  his  flat-brimmed  hat,  and  his 
loose  working  blouse,  and  his  loud  checked 
trousers  —  Gregoire,  helas  !  with  his  flushed 
face,  and  his  tremulous  hands,  and  his  un- 
steady walk,  as  Jean  had  seen  him  a  hundred 
times  ! 

Le  Pochard  staggered  to  and  fro  upon  the 
marble-topped  table,  nodding  maudlinly,  and 
alternately  filling  his  cup  and  raising  it  uncer- 
tainly to  his  expressionless  face.  At  last,  weak- 
ened by  his  exertions,  he  passed  one  arm 
through  the  handle  of  Jean's  demi,  hesitated, 
and  then  leaned  heavily  against  the  glass  and 
stood  motionless,  with  his  topheavy  head  bent 
forward,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  price-mark 
upon  the  saucer  below.  This  eloquent  manoeu- 
vre, so  unspeakably  appealing,  determined  the 
future  ownership  of  Le  Pochard.  Jean  pur- 
chased him  upon  the  spot,  and  bore  him  off 
in  triumph  to  the  rue  de  Seine,  as  an  object 
lesson  for  Gregoire  Caubert. 

The  two  students  shared  a  little  sous-toit 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Beaux-Arts, 


140  LE   POCHARD 

neither  luxuriously  nor  yet  insufficiently  fur- 
nished. It  was  Jean's  good  fortune  to  have 
a  father  who  believed  in  him  —  not  a  usual 
condition  of  mind  in  a  provincial  merchant 
whose  son  displays  an  unaccountable  partiality 
for  architecture  —  and,  what  was  more  to  the 
point,  who  could  afford  to  demonstrate  his  con- 
fidence by  remittances,  which  were  inspiring, 
if  not  on  the  score  of  magnitude,  at  least  on 
that  of  regularity.  And,  since  freedom  from 
pecuniary  solicitude  is  the  surest  guarantee  of 
a  cheerful  spirit,  there  was  no  more  diligent 
pupil  at  the  Boite,  no  blither  comrade  in  idle 
hours,  —  above  all,  no  more  loyal  friend,  in  sun 
or  shadow,  throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  Quartier,  than  little  Jean  le  Gai,  as  he 
was  called  by  those  who  loved  him,  and  whom 
he  loved. 

That  was  why  the  comrades  were  at  a  loss 
to  understand  his  friendship  for  Gre'goire  Cau- 
bert.  Had  the  latter  been  one  of  themselves, 
a  type  of  the  schools,  in  that  fact  alone,  what- 
ever his  peculiarities,  would  have  lain  a  reason 
for  the  association.  But,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  he  was  of  another  world.  His  simi- 
larity to  Jean  and  to  themselves  began  and 


LE  POCHARD  141 

ended  with  his  costume.  For  the  rest  he  was 
silent  and  reserved,  courting  no  confidence  and 
giving  none,  unknowing  and  unknown  to  the 
haunts  they  frequented,  —  the  Deux  Magots, 
the  Escholiers,  the  Taverne,  the  Bullier,  and 
Madame  Roupiquet's  in  the  rue  de  Beaune, 
and  the  Rouge  on  Thursday  nights.  Jean  le 
Gai,  when  questioned  as  to  the  doings  of 
Gre'goire,  seemed  to  reflect  something  of  his 
friend's  reserve.  He  admitted  that  the  other 
wrote  :  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  prophesy  that 
some  day  Gregoire  would  be  famous.  Further, 
he  made  no  admissions. 

"  Diable !  "  he  said.  "  What  does  it  matter  ? 
He  goes  his  way  —  I  go  mine.  And  if  we 
choose  to  live  together,  whose'  concern  is  it 
then,  I  ask  you  ?  Fichez-moi  la  paix,  vous 
autres !  " 

So  popular  curiosity  went  unsatisfied,  so  far 
as  Gregoire  was  concerned,  and  the  apparently 
uncongenial  menage  came,  in  time,  to  be  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  unexplained  mysteries  of 
the  Quartier,  —  one,  for  the  rest,  which  made 
no  particular  difference  to  any  one  save  the  two 
immediately  concerned. 

But    if    Jean   made    no    admissions    as    to 


142  LE   POCHARD 

Gregoire,  it  was  not  for  lack  of  sufficient 
knowledge.  They  had  met,  as  men  meet  in 
the  Quartier,  —  as  bubbles  meet  in  a  stream, 
and,  for  reasons  not  apparent,  are  drawn  to- 
gether by  an  irresistible  attraction,  and  fuse 
into  one  larger,  brighter  bubble  than  either  has 
been  before.  For  little  Jean  Fraissigne,  whose 
exquisses  were  the  wonder  of  the  School,  and 
whose  projets  had  already  come  to  be  photo- 
graphed and  sold  in  the  shops  of  the  rue 
Bonaparte  and  the  quai  Conti,  believed  in  his 
heart  that  architecture  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  literature,  and  Gregoire,  whose  long, 
uphill  struggle  had  been  unaccompanied  by 
comradely  admiration  or  even  encouragement, 
found  indescribable  comfort,  in  the  hour  of  his 
success,  in  the  faith  and  approbation  of  the 
friend  who  alone,  of  all  men,  knew  his  secret, 
—  knew  that  the  Re'nd  de  Lys  of  the  "  Chan- 
sons de  Danae  "  and  the  "  Voyage  de  Tristan" 
of  which  all  Paris  was  talking,  was  none  other 
than  himself  —  Gregoire  Caubert,  on  whose 
wrist  the  siren  of  absinthe  had  laid  a  hand  that 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off,  and  whom  she  was 
leading,  if  by  the  paths  of  subtlest  fancy  and 
almost  miraculous  creative  faculty,  yet  toward 


LE   POCHARD  143 

an  end  inevitable  on  which  he  did  not  dare  to 
dwell. 

To  Jean,  healthy,  rational,  and  cheerful  as 
a  young  terrier,  much  that  Gregoire  said  and 
did  was  totally  incomprehensible,  but  what  he 
did  not  understand  he  set  down,  with  convic- 
tion, to  the  eccentricity  of  genius.  The  long 
nights  which  he  spent  alone,  sleeping  sanely 
in  their  bedroom  in  the  rue  de  Seine,  while 
Gregoire's  cot  stood  empty  beside  him,  and 
Gregoire  himself  was  tramping  the  streets  of 
Paris  ;  the  return  of  his  friend  in  the  first  faint 
light  of  dawn,  pale-faced  and  swaying ;  the 
succeeding  hours  which,  despite  his  exhaus- 
tion, he  spent  at  his  desk,  feverishly  writing, 
and  tossing  the  pages  from  him,  one  by  one, 
until  the  floor  was  strewn  with  them  on  all 
sides ;  finally,  his  heavy  slumber  far  into  the 
afternoon,  —  all  this,  to  Jean,  was  but  part  and 
parcel  of  that  marvelous  thing  called  literature. 
He  returned  at  seven  to  find  that  Gre'goire  had 
prepared  a  wonderful  little  meal,  and  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  floor,  unevenly,  absinthe 
in  hand,  awaiting  his  arrival. 

In  the  two  hours  which  followed  lay  the 
keynote  of  their  sympathy.  It  was  then  that 


144  LE   POCHARD 


Gregoire  would  read  his  work  of  the  early 
morning  hour,  to  Jean,  curled  up  on  the  divan, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head  and 
his  eyes  round  and  wide  with  delight  and  ad- 
miration. What  things  they  were,  those  fan- 
cies that  Gregoire  had  pursued  and  caught, 
like  night-moths,  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  while 
stupid  folk  were  sleeping !  And  how  he  read 
them,  Gregoire,  with  his  flushed  face  lit  with 
inspiration,  and  his  eyes  flaming  with  enthusi- 
asm !  If  only  he  would  not  drink  absinthe, 
thought  little  Jean,  and  said  so,  timidly  at  first, 
and  then  more  earnestly,  as,  little  by  little,  the 
marks  of  excess  grew  more  plain  in  his  friend. 
But  Gre'goire  made  a  joke  of  this  —  he  who 
always  joked  —  and  in  time,  Jean  came  to  ac- 
quiesce. For  he  never  wholly  understood  — 
until  afterwards. 

So,  when  nine  struck,  it  was  understood  that 
they  parted  company  till  the  following  evening. 
Jean  brought  out  his  drawing  board,  his  T 
square,  and  all  their  attendant  paraphernalia, 
and  toiled  at  his  caiques  with  infinite  patience 
and  unerring  accuracy,  until  midnight ;  and 
Gregoire,  having  corrected  his  manuscript  here 
and  there,  gnawing  savagely  at  his  pencil  the 


LE  POCHARD  145 


while,  inclosed  it  in  one  of  his  long  envelopes, 
scrawled  "  Redaction  du  Journal  "  upon  it, 
stamped  it,  and  went  out  into  the  night  to  mail 
the  old,  and  seek  new  moths.  And  this  was 
all  there  was  to  the  comradeship  which  mysti- 
fied the  Quartier,  save  that  the  love  of  Jean  for 
Gregoire  and  of  Gre'goire  for  Jean  was  as  deep 
and  unfaltering  as  the  current  of  the  eternal 
Seine  —  and,  if  anything,  more  silent ! 

Jean  wound  up  Le  Pochard  stealthily,  on  the 
landing  outside  the  apartment  door,  and,  enter- 
ing, placed  it  suddenly  upon  the  table  under 
the  very  nose  of  Gre'goire,  who  stood,  sipping 
his  absinthe,  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Le 
Pochard  rocked  and  swayed,  ticking  like  a  little 
clock,  and  drinking  cup  after  cup  of  his  imagi- 
nary beverage,  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  the 
quantity  consumed.  Convulsed  with  merri- 
ment at  the  performance  of  the  preposterous 
creature,  Jean  le  Gai  lay  prone  upon  the  divan, 
kneading  the  cushions  with  his  fists  and  kick- 
ing his  heels  against  the  floor,  and  Gregoire, 
a  slow  smile  curling  his  thin,  sensitive  lips, 
seemed  to  forget  even  his  absinthe  until  the 
toy's  energy  slackened  and  he  paused,  with 
the  bottle  shaking  in  his  hand,  and  his  eyes,  as 


146  LE  POCHARD 


usual,  bent  upon  the  ground.  Then  —  "  Eh 
b'en  —  quoi  ?  "  said  Gregoire,  looking  up  at  his 
friend. 

"  Mais  c'est  toi !  "  burst  out  the  little  archi- 
tect in  an  ecstasy.  "It  is  thou  to  the  life, 
my  Gregoire  !  Remark  the  blouse  —  what  ?  — 
and  the  hat,  sale  pompier !  —  and  the  checked 
grimpant,  name  of  a  pipe !  But  it  is  thy 
brother,  Le  Pochard  1  —  thy  twin  —  thou,  thy- 
self ! " 

And  seizing  the  glass  from  Gre'goire's  hand, 
he  carefully  filled  Le  Pochard's  cup  with  ab- 
sinthe, and  set  him  reeling  and  swaggering 
again,  so  that  the  immoral  little  animal  spilled 
the  liquid  on  his  blouse,  and  presently  fell  head- 
long, totally  overcome,  with  his  nose  pressed 
flat  against  the  table. 

Thereafter,  it  was  a  comradeship  of  three 
instead  of  two.  It  was  quite  in  accord  with 
the  whimsically  fanciful  nature  of  Gregoire 
that  he  should  take  Le  Pochard  into  his  affec- 
tions, and  even  call  him  "  brother  "  and  "  cher 
confrere."  He  treated  him,  did  Gregoire,  with 
marked  deference  and  studied  non-observance 
of  his  besetting  weakness,  and  he  expected 
and  received  from  Le  Pochard  a  like  respect 


LE  POCHARD  147 

and  indulgence  in  return.  That,  at  least,  was 
how  he  described  their  relations  to  Jean,  and 
Jean,  curled  up  upon  the  divan,  was  never  tired 
of  the  droll  pretense,  but  would  laugh  night 
after  night  till  the  tears  came,  at  the  common 
tact  and  the  mutual  courtesy  of  Gregoire  and 
Le  Pochard. 

Linked  by  this  new,  if  unstable,  bond  of 
sympathy,  neither  of  the  friends  understood, 
during  the  months  that  followed,  that  their 
paths,  which  had  so  long  lain  parallel,  were 
gradually  but  inevitably  diverging.  Jean  was 
now  wrapped  heart  and  soul  in  the  competi- 
tion for  the  Prix  de  Rome,  and,  as  he  said  him- 
self, en  charrette  eternally.  Even  the  work  of 
his  comrade,  which  formerly  had  held  him 
spell-bound,  lost  for  him,  little  by  little,  much 
of  its  compellant  charm.  His  nimble  mind, 
busy  with  the  stern,  symmetrical  lines  of  col- 
umns and  the  intricate  proportioning  of  capi- 
tals, drifted  imperceptibly  away  from  its  one- 
time appreciation  of  pure  imagery.  He  returned 
later  at  night  from  the  atelier,  consumed  the 
meal  they  ate  in  common  with  growing  im- 
patience, and  was  busy  with  his  caiques  again 
before  Gregoire  had  fairly  finished  his  coffee. 


148  LE   POCHARD 


The  evening  readings,  grown  shorter  and 
shorter,  were  finally  abandoned  altogether, 
and,  oftener  than  not,  Jean  was  totally  oblivi- 
ous to  the  presence  of  Gregoire,  correcting  his 
manuscript  at  the  little  desk,  or  his  noiseless 
departure  with  the  stamped  envelope  under 
his  arm.  Had  he  been  told,  he  would  have 
denied  his  defection  with  the  scorn  bred  by 
conviction.  It  was  not  that  he  loved  his  com- 
rade less,  but  only  that  the  growing  promise 
of  the  Prix  de  Rome  lay,  like  the  marvel  of 
dawn,  on  the  horizon  of  the  immediate  future, 
blinding  his  eyes  to  all  beside.  For  Jean  le 
Gai  was  finding  himself,  and  in  the  crescent 
light  of  that  new  and  wonderful  discovery  what- 
ever had  been  bright  before  grew  tawdry. 

Only  one  evidence  remained  of  what  had 
been.  Le  Pochard,  with  his  absurd  inanity, 
was  yet  a  feature  of  every  dinner  in  the  rue  de 
Seine,  and  because  Gregoire  invented  daily 
some  new  drollery  in  connection  with  their 
senseless  toy,  Jean  was  unaware  that  things 
were  no  longer  the  same,  —  that  his  friend 
was  thinner  and  more  nervous,  that  the  circles 
had  deepened  under  his  eyes,  that  he  said 
no  word  of  his  work.  They  laughed  together 


LE  POCHARD  149 


at  Le  Pochard,  and  laughed  again  at  their  own 
amusement.  So  the  days  went  by  and  still 
their  paths  diverged,  —  Jean's  toward  the  sun- 
gilt  hills  of  promise  and  prosperity,  Gregoire's 
toward  the  valley  of  shadow  that  a  man  must 
tread  alone. 

Despite  his  proclivities,  neither  foresaw  the 
end  of  Le  Pochard.  So  gradual  was  his  de- 
cline toward  utter  degradation  that  the  varnish 
was  gone  from  his  narrow  boots  and  his  round, 
weak  face,  and  his  simple  attire  was  frayed  and 
worn,  before  they  had  remarked  the  change. 
Then,  one  night,  as  Gre'goire  wound  him,  the 
key  turned  futilely  in  the  spring.  Placed  in  his 
accustomed  position  on  the  table,  Le  Pocharcl 
made  one  feeble  gesture  of  surrender  with  his 
bottle,  one  unavailing  effort  to  raise  his  absinthe 
to  his  lips,  and,  reeling  dizzily,  crashed  down 
upon  the  floor,  his  debauches  done  with  for- 
ever. 

It  was  a  curious  thing  that,  in  the  face  of 
this  absurdity,  neither  of  the  comrades  smiled. 
In  some  unaccountable  fashion  Le  Pochard 
had  come  to  be  so  much  a  part  of  their  asso- 
ciation that  in  his  passing  there  was  less  of 
farce  than  tragedy.  And  Jean,  looking  across 


ISO  LE  POCHARD 

at  Gregoire,  saw  for  the  first  time  the  pitiful 
change  that  had  crept  into  the  face  of  his 
friend,  the  utter  weariness  where  restless 
energy  had  been,  the  dullness  of  the  eyes 
wherein  had  played  imagination,  like  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp  above  the  slough  of  destiny.  And 
Grdgoire,  looking  across  at  Jean,  knew  that 
the  moment  had  come,  and  dropped  his  glance, 
ashamed,  fingering  the  tattered  clothes  of  Le 
Pochard. 

"  One  might  have  expected  it,"  said  Jean, 
with  a  smile  that  was  not  a  smile.  "  I  suppose 
we  must  forgive  him  his  faults,  now  that  he  is 
gone.  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum  !  " 

Then,  as  Gregoire  made  no  reply,  he  added, 

"  I  shall  not  work  to-night.  I  am  tired.  Que 
veux-tu  ?  I  have  been  doing  too  much.  So  we 
will  sit  by  the  fire,  n'est  ce  pas,  vieux  ?  And 
thou  shalt  read  to  me  as  before.  Dieu !  It  is 
a  long  time  since  the  moths  have  shown  their 
wings ! " 

In  the  tiny  grate  the  cannel  coal  snapped 
and  spat  fretfully,  and  Jean,  buried  in  the 
largest  chair,  winked  at  the  sparks,  and,  fur- 
tively, from  the  corners  of  his  brown  eyes, 
watched  Gregoire  reading,  half-heartedly,  with 


LE  POCHARD  151 

the  lamp-light  cutting  sharply  across  his  thin 
cheek  and  his  temples,  on  which  the  veins  stood 
singularly  out. 

He  was  no  critic,  little  Jean  le  Gai,  yet  even 
he  knew  that  something  had  touched  and 
bruised  the  wings  of  this  latest  moth  that  Gre'- 
goire  had  pursued  and  caught  while  stupid  folk 
were  sleeping,  so  that  it  was  not,  as  had  been 
the  others,  downed  with  the  shifting  brilliance 
of  many  unimagined  hues,  but  dull  and  som- 
bre, like  the  look  he  had  surprised  in  the  face 
of  his  friend.  And  so  subtly  keyed  were  the 
strings  of  their  unspoken  sympathy  that  night, 
that  a  sense  of  the  other's  feeling  stole  in  upon 
Gregoire  long  before  the  manuscript  was  fin- 
ished, and  suddenly  he  cast  it  from  him  into 
the  grate,  where  the  little  flames  caught  at  it, 
and  wrapped  it  round,  and  sucked  out  its  life, 
exulting,  until  it  lay  blackened  and  dying, 
writhing  on  the  coals. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Jean.     But  he  knew. 

"  Because,"  answered  Gre'goire  slowly,  with 
his  eyes  upon  the  shrunken,  faintly  whispering 
ashes  of  his  pages,  whereat  the  sparks  gnawed 
with  insatiable  greed,  "  because,  my  little  one, 
it  is  finished.  What  I  have  done  I  shall  never 


152  LE  POCHARD 

do  again.     Never  didst  them  wholly  understand 

—  least  of  all  in  these  last  days  when  thy  work 
absorbed  thee.     If  one  is  to  catch  night-moths 
with  such  a  tender  touch,  and  preserve  them 
for  other  men  to  see  so  carefully,  that  no  one 
little  glint  of  radiance  may  be  missing  from 
their  wings,  one  has  need  of  a  clear  eye  and 
of  a  steady  hand.     Neither  is  mine.     My  fa- 
ther, of  whom  I  have  never  spoken  to  thee,  — 
my  father,  who  left  me  this  gift  of  trapping  the 
thoughts  that  others  see  not  as  they  fly,  yet 
love  and  prize  when  they  are  caught  and  pinned 
upon  the  page,  yet  left  me  a  companion  curse, 

—  the  curse  of  absinthe,  little  Jean,  that  is  not 
to  be  gainsaid.     For  as  the  gift  was  beautiful, 
so  was  it  also  frail,  and  as  the  curse  was  sub- 
tle, so  was  it  also  strong.     I  have  seen  the 
end  —  long,  long.     Now  it  is  here.     My  work 
is  finished.     The  curse   has   knocked  at  the 
door  of  my  body,  and,  at  the  signal,  the  gift 
has  flown  forth  from  the  window  of  my  soul." 

He  paused,  and  pausing,  smiled. 

"Thou  didst  most  nearly  understand  me, 
Jean,"  he  continued,  "  in  buying  Le  Pochard. 
For  in  truth,  he  was  my  brother  —  my  twin  — 
my  soul,  in  the  semblance  of  a  toy  !  How  we 


LE  POCHARD  153 

have  laughed  at  him !  Yet  all  along  I  have 
seen  myself  in  that  senseless  little  man  of  tin. 
Is  it  fanciful  ?  Peut-Stre  bien !  But,  now  that 
he  is  gone,  I  see  that  I  must  go,  too,  —  and  in 
the  same  way,  my  Jean,  in  the  same  way,  —  with 
my  absinthe  in  my  hand  and  the  key  of  inspi- 
ration turning  uselessly  in  the  broken  spring 
of  my  heart !  " 

He  rose  suddenly,  with  a  shiver,  and  looked 
down  at  Jean  le  Gai.  For  an  instant  he 
touched  him  on  the  hair,  and  then  he  was  gone 
into  the  night,  leaving  the  little  architect  gaz- 
ing, wide-eyed  and  mute,  at  the  crinkling  ashes 
of  the  last,  unworthiest  moth  of  all. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  Le  Pochard 
stood  upon  the  mantel-corner.  They  no  longer 
touched  him,  but  left  him,  as  it  were,  a  monu- 
ment to  his  own  folly. 

There  was  no  further  trace  in  Gre'goire's 
manner  of  the  mood  which  had  loosed  his 
tongue  on  the  night  of  his  last  reading.  To 
Jean,  who,  in  his  simplicity  stood  ready  with 
comfort  and  encouragement,  he  seemed  to  be 
in  need  of  neither.  Plainly,  what  he  had  said 
was  but  a  phase  of  that  strange  imagination 
which  had  dictated  the  exquisite  pathos  of  his 


154  LE  POCHARD 


"  Danae  "  and  his  "  Tristan ; "  and  this  one 
thing  little  Jean  had  learned,  —  that  his  friend 
lived  the  moods  he  wrote,  and  that  oftentimes, 
when  what  he  said  was  seemingly  most  per- 
sonal, he  was  posing  for  his  own  pen  —  a 
painter  in  speech,  drawing  from  his  reflection 
in  a  mirror  opposite.  So  the  vague  alarm 
aroused  by  Gregoire's  words  died  down,  and 
Jean  plunged  once  more  into  his  work. 

In  those  last  days  of  the  competition  his 
pro  jet,  laboriously  builded,  detail  by  detail, 
leaped  into  completion  with  a  suddenness  start- 
ling even  to  himself.  He  knew  that  it  was 
good,  —  knew  so  without  the  surprising  enthu- 
siasm of  his  comrades  at  the  atelier,  and  the 
still  more  surprising  commendation  of  his  pa- 
tron, the  great  Laloux  himself,  whose  policy 
was  nil  admirari^  whose  frown  a  habit,  and 
whose  *J*  Bon!"  a  miracle.  But  even  Jean  le 
Gai,  with  all  his  buoyant  optimism,  was  unpre- 
pared in  conviction  for  those  words  which  re- 
verberated, to  his  ears  like  thunder,  beneath 
the  dome  of  the  Institut. 

"  Prix  de  Rome  —  Jean  Fraissigne  —  Atelier 
Laloux ! " 

Would   Gregoire   never  come  ?     He   asked 


LE  POCHARD  155 


himself  the  question  a  hundred  times  as  he 
paced  the  floor  of  their  living-room  an  hour 
before  dinner,  exulting  in  the  cold  roast  chicken 
and  the  champagne,  and  the  huge  Marechale 
Niel  rose  which  he  had  purchased  for  the  oc- 
casion. For  he  was  determined,  was  Jean  le 
Gai,  that  Gregoire  should  be  the  first  to  know. 
Was  it  not  Gre'goire  who  had  encouraged  him 
all  along,  who  had  prophesied  success  when  as 
yet  the  projet  was  no  more  than  an  exquisse  ex- 
quisse,  who  had  laughed  down  Jean's  forebod- 
ings, and  magnified  Jean's  hopes  a  hundred- 
fold ?  Yes,  evidently  Gregoire  must  be  the 
first  to  know,  before  even  a  bleu  should  be  sent 
to  Avignon  to  gladden  the  heart  of  Fraissigne 
pere! 

But  when  Gre'goire  came,  there  was  no  need 
to  tell  him  after  all.  For  it  was  the  chicken 
that  shouted  Jean's  news  —  the  chicken,  and 
the  champagne,  and  the  great  yellow  rose,  and, 
most  of  all,  the  face  of  Jean  himself.  So  it 
was  that  Gregoire  held  out  his  long,  thin  arms, 
wide-spread,  and  that  into  them  rushed  Jean, 
to  be  hugged  and  patted,  as  he  gabbled  some 
things  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  under- 
standing and  many  more  that  there  was  not. 


156  LE  POCHARD 

"  Rome  —  Rome,  think  of  it !  And  the  pa- 
ternel  —  but  he  will  die  of  joy !  Ah,  mon  vieux, 
—  Rome  !  The  dreams  —  the  hopes  —  all  I 
have  wished  for  —  and  now  —  and  now  —  Ah, 
mon  vieux,  mon  vieux !  " 

And  so  again  and  again,  clamoring  incohe- 
rently, while  Gregoire,  holding  him  tight,  could 
only  pat  and  pat,  and  say,  over  and  over,  — 

"  It  is  well,  my  little  brother !  My  little  bro- 
ther, it  is  very,  very  well ! " 

They  dined  like  princes,  these  two,  pledging 
each  other,  laughing,  singing,  shouting.  Never 
had  Jean  le  Gai  so  well  deserved  his  name, 
never  had  Gre'goire  been  so  whimsically  droll. 
Even  Le  Pochard  was  restored  to  his  old  posi- 
tion and  coaxed  to  repeat  his  former  antics. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  The  key  refused  to 
catch  the  spring,  and,  replaced  upon  the  table, 
Le  Pochard  *only  nodded  once  or  twice  with 
profound  melancholy,  and  stared  at  little  Jean 
out  of  his  round  eyes.  Once,  Jean  thought  he 
caught  in  the  face  of  his  friend  a  hint  of  the 
sadness  of  that  other  night,  but  when  he  looked 
again  the  sadness,  if  sadness  it  were,  was  gone. 
Gregoire  filled  his  glass,  and  pledged  him  anew 
with  a  laugh. 


LE  POCHARD  157 


"  Rome,  mon  petit  frere  —  Rome ! " 

At  nine,  they  went  out  together,  Jean  to  dis- 
patch his  bleu  and  join  the  comrades  at  the 
Taverne  —  for  this  was  a  night  to  be  cele- 
brated with  songs  and  many  drained  demis  — 
and  Gregoire,  who  knew  where  ? 

Who  knew  where  ?  Only  the  Seine,  perhaps, 
sulking  past  the  rampart  on  which  he  leaned, 
thinking,  thinking,  until  the  gaunt  dawn  crept 
up,  like  a  sick  man  from  his  bed,  behind  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame;  and  the  shutters  of 
the  shops  on  the  quai  Conti  came  rattling 
down,  and  the  street  cries  went  shrilly  through 
the  thin  morning  air :  "  Rac'modeur  d'faience 
et  d'por-or-celaine  !  "  or  "  'Archand  de  robinets ! 
Tureetutu,  tureetututututu !  "  Then  Grdgoire 
went  slowly  back  to  the  rue  de  Seine. 

Jean  spent  the  succeeding  days  in  a  whirl 
of  excitement.  There  were  calls  to  be  made, 
farewell  suppers  to  be  eaten,  and  all  the  pre- 
paration for  departure  to  be  superintended. 
Fraissigne  pere  sent  a  joyful  letter,  and  in  the 
letter  a  substantial  draft,  so  that  Jean  had  two 
new  complets,  and  shirts,  and  socks,  and  shoes, 
and  a  brilliantly  varnished  trunk  with  his  name 
and  address  painted  in  black  letters  on  the  end, 


158  LE   POCHARD 


—  "  J.  Fraissigne,  Villa  Medici,  Rome."  It  was 
magnificent !  In  this  and  a  packing  case  he 
stowed  his  clothes  and  his  household  gods, 
though  when  the  latter  had  been  collected,  the 
little  apartment  in  the  rue  de  Seine  looked  piti- 
fully bare.  There  were  dark  squares  on  the 
faded  red  wall-paper,  and  clean  circles  in  the 
dust  of  the  shelves,  where  his  pictures  and  casts 
and  little  ornaments  had  been,  but  Gregoire 
only  laughed  and  said  that  the  place  had  been 
too  crowded  before,  and  that  the  long-needed 
house-cleaning  was  no  longer  an  impossibility. 
So,  before  they  realized  the  fact,  the  moment 
of  parting  was  upon  them,  and  the  sapin,  with 
Jean's  luggage  on  top,  stood  waiting  at  the 
door.  The  concierge,  wiping  her  hands  upon 
her  blue-checked  apron,  came  out  to  bid  her 
favorite  lodger  good-by.  A  little  throng  of 
curious  idlers  paused  on  the  narrow  sidewalk, 
gaping  at  the  new  trunk  with  the  glaring  letter- 
ing. The  cocher  was  already  untying  the  nose- 
bag in  which  his  lean  brown  horse  had  been 
nuzzling  for  fifteen  minutes.  And,  on  the  curb, 
arm  linked  in  arm,  the  two  comrades  stood 
watching  him,  with  no  courage  to  meet  each 
other's  eyes.  For  each  had  a  thousand  things 


LE  POCHARD  159 

to  say  and  never  a  word  in  which  to  say  so 
much  as  one. 

At  the  end,  as  their  hands  met,  it  was  only 
a  commonplace  that  came  to  Jean's  tongue. 

"  Thou  wilt  write  me,  vieux  ?  And  in  four 
years  —  ce  qui  va  vite,  du  reste !  —  we  shall  be 
together  once  more  ! " 

In  four  years  —  in  four  years  —  in  four  years  ! 
The  words  beat  dully  at  Gregoire's  temples,  as 
he  watched  the  cab  swing  round  the  corner 
of  the  Institut  toward  the  quai  Malaquais,  with 
Jean's  handkerchief  fluttering  at  the  window  of 
the  portiere.  Four  years  —  four  years  —  four 
years !  How  easy  it  was  to  say  for  one  who 
did  not  know  that  the  end  had  come,  —  that 
the  moths  of  fancy  that  fly  by  night  must  be 
caught  by  others  now,  that  the  siren  of  absinthe 
was  standing  ready  to  claim  her  own  ! 

Gregoire  mounted  the  stairs  slowly,  unlocked 
the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  familiar  room, 
dim  now  in  the  last  faint  light  of  day.  His 
absinthe  stood  upon  the  table,  and  he  took  it 
up,  and  paused,  looking  about  him.  Presently 
he  went  forward  to  the  mantel,  and,  laying  one 
hand  upon  it,  bent  forward,  peering  at  a  little 
photograph  of  Jean  which  leaned  against  the 


160  LE  POCHARD 


mirror.  The  woodwork  jarred  under  his  touch, 
and  Le  Pochard  in  his  corner  stirred,  ticked 
feebly,  and  strove  to  raise  his  cup  to  his  lips. 
Wheeling  at  the  sound,  Gregoire  met  the  eyes 
of  the  dissipated  little  toy  for  a  full  minute, 
motionless  and  silent.  Then  with  a  sob,  he 
hurled  his  glass  into  the  grate,  where  it  was 
shivered  into  a  hundred  fragments,  and  flung 
himself  on  his  knees  by  the  divan,  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands. 

"  Mon  frerot !  "  he  murmured,  "  my  little 
brother  —  help  me  —  help  me  to  be  strong." 

On  the  mantle,  Le  Pochard  bent  his  head 
and  gazed  shamefacedly  upon  the  ground. 

For  his  reign  was  at  an  end. 


A  Latter-Day 
Lucifer 


THE  distance  between  them  is  far  less 
than  is  commonly  supposed.     In  fact, 
they  are  separated  only  by  a  parti-wall. 
But  there  is  a  vast  difference  in  their  exteriors, 
Heaven  being  gay  with  silver  paint  and  stucco 
cherubs,  and  illuminated  by.  a  huge  arc-light 
with  a  white  globe,  and  Hell  all  red,  with  a 
monster's  grinning  mouth  for  entrance,  and 
a  ruby  lamp. 

The  two  cabarets  stand  on  the  boulevard  de 
Clichy,  side  by  side,  and,  when  one  is  passing 
through  Paris  on  a  Cook  ticket,  good  for  a  two 


162  A   LATTER-DAY   LUCIFER 

weeks'  stay,  one  is  taken  by  an  obliging  friend 
of  the  Colony  to  see  them,  and  so  is  enabled 
to  return  to  the  States  with  the  pleasing  con- 
viction of  having  had  a  glimpse  of  the  true  life 
of  Montmartre,  —  the  which  is  so  artistic,  and 
Bohemian,  and  all  that. 

It  is  something,  as  every  one  knows,  to  be 
an  angel  in  Le  Ciel;  but  it  is  also  something, 
as  every  one  does  not  know,  to  be  a  demon 
in  L'Enfer.  Aside  from  the  sentiment  of  the 
thing,  it  is  all  the  same,  —  harps  and  halos  or 
horns  and  hoofs.  The  clientele  of  both  places 
is,  for  the  most  part,  etrangere,  and  what  is  cer- 
tain is  that  an  American  never  counts  the  little 
money  one  gives  him  in  change,  and  that  an 
Englishman  disputes  it  anyway,  so  that,  in  the 
beginning,  one  might  as  well  be  wrong  as  right, 
and  that  a  German  is  unable  to  tell  a  louis  from 
a  new  sou.  And  a  pourboire  is  a  pourboire, 
whether  intentional  or  otherwise.  That  is  why 
Maxime  Perrot  felt  himself  to  be  a  remarkably 
fortunate  person  when,  one  evening  in  June, 
he  was  suddenly  transformed  into  an  angel,  as 
a  result  of  his  intimacy  with  Gustave  Robine. 

Gustave  was  two  metres  twelve  in  height, 
which  is  something  so  astonishing  in  itself  that 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  163 

it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that,  for  more  than 
a  year,  he  had  filled  the  eminent  position  of 
guardian  of  the  gate  of  Le  Ciel,  and  was  much 
in  favor  with  the  management,  because  of  the 
attention  he  attracted  from  the  clients.  Also, 
he  kept  his  eyes  open,  and,  moreover,  he  owed 
Maxime  fifty  francs.  So,  when  one  of  the 
angels  abruptly  married  a  rich  widow,  and 
departed  for  Maisons-Laffitte,  to  live  on  her 
ample  rentes,  Gustave  mentioned  the  name  of 
his  friend  and  creditor  for  the  vacancy,  and, 
the  next  day,  Maxime  became  one  of  the  per- 
sonnel of  Heaven,  with  a  fresh  pair  of  wings 
and  new  pink  fleshings. 

Maxime  was  short  and  slender,  in  all  except 
his  feet,  which  were  long  and  large,  so  long 
and  large,  indeed,  that  he  was  called  F  L  Ma- 
juscule—  the  Capital  L  —  by  his  intimates, 
and  fully  merited  the  nickname  when  viewed 
in  profile,  standing.  His  experiences  in  life 
had  been  diverse,  for,  as  he  himself  was  wont 
to  say,  he  cared  less  for  an  existence  without 
variety  than  does  a  fish  for  an  apple.  He  had 
driven  a  voiture  de  remise,  gorgeous  in  a  green 
cockade  and  doeskin  breeches :  he  had  been 
collector  for  the  Banque  de  France,  dismissed, 


164  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

let  charity  say  not  why  :  and  gargon  de  restau- 
rant, racing  to  and  fro,  with  a  mammoth  tray 
balanced  on  one  upright  arm,  like  a  human 
umbrella :  and  camelot,  hoarsely  crying  "  La 
Patrie ! "  in  front  of  the  boulevard  cafes  :  and, 
finally,  valet  de  chambre  to  Captain  the  Honor- 
able Michael  Douglas,  military  attache  to  the 
British  Embassy.  It  was  in  the  last  capacity 
that  he  had  learned  English,  which  now  he 
spoke,  said  Gustave,  like  a  veritable  Goddem. 
That  was  not  the  least  of  the  new  angel's  quali- 
fications. To  be  sure,  it  was  against  all  reason 
that  the  sales  anglais  should,  under  any  circum- 
stances, achieve  an  entree  into  Heaven,  but  then 
there  were  many  incongruities  in  connection 
with  Le  Ciel,  and  the  fact  remained  that  three 
out  of  five  of  the  clients  spoke  Angliche,  and 
an  angel  who  could  reply  to  them  in  their  own 
ignoble  argot  was,  without  doubt,  an  invaluable 
acquisition. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Maxime  made  a 
good  beginning  in  Heaven.  He  entered  upon 
his  new  duties  modestly,  and  spent  a  full  half- 
hour  of  the  early  evening  cleaning  the  long 
table  in  the  main  hall,  dusting  the  surrounding 
stools  of  gold,  upon  which  the  chosen  were  to 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  165 

sit,  and  assisting  his  fellow  angels  in  polishing 
the  liqueur  glasses.  And  it  so  happened  that 
the  first  to  enter  that  night  was  Major  Amos 
E,  Cogswell,  of  the  United  States  Army,  who 
had  spent  three  weeks  in  Paris  at  the  age  of 
twenty-two,  and  distinguished  himself  by  de- 
manding, on  his  second  arrival,  the  way  to  the 
Jardin  Mabille.  With  the  Major  were  his  two 
nieces,  and  their  attendant  swains,  John  Self- 
ridge  Appleby  and  P.  Hamilton  Beck,  the 
latter  in  narrow-brimmed  straw  hats,  which 
resembled  lids  of  Japanese  tea-pots,  and  dog- 
skin walking  gloves,  turned  back  at  the  wrists. 
The  party  entered  with  an  air  of  bravado,  and 
were  heard  to  remark  that  this  was  IT,  —  what- 
ever that  might  mean.  It  was  Maxime's  oppor- 
tunity, and  he  improved  it  to  the  utmost,  seat- 
ing the  newcomers  around  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  demanding,  "  Ces  messieurs  desirent  ? "  as 
if  completely  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  anything  but  bred-in-the-bone  boulevar- 
diers.  For  there  was  need  of  precaution.  It 
is  an  inexplicable  thing  about  these  English 
that  one  is  charmed  to  be  addressed  in  his 
own  tongue,  and  the  next  is  insulted.  It  pays 
to  feel  one's  way. 


166  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

"  What  does  he  say  ? "  said  Major  Cogswell, 
turning,  helplessly,  to  P.  Hamilton  Beck,  who 
had  taken  French  II.  at  Columbia. 

"  Wants  us  to  name  the  drinks,"  responded 
that  accomplished  young  gentleman. 

"  Spik  Ingliss  ? "  put  in  1'L  Majuscule,  de- 
ploying the  skirmishers  of  his  vocabulary. 

"  Tchure  !  "  said  Mr.  Beck. 

"  Ah !  "  replied  Maxime,  much  gratified, 
"  zen  v'at  eest  ?  Vat  veel  de  zaintlemans 
aff?" 

"  Cream  de  mint,"  said  the  Major,  promptly, 
and,  his  companions  agreeing  with  alacrity, 
Mr.  Beck  again  undertook  the  role  of  interpre- 
ter. 

"  Sank  cream  de  mint,"  he  commanded,  hold- 
ing up  his  left  hand,  wide-spread,  "  et  toute 
suite." 

And,  in  a  surprisingly  brief  space  of  time, 
five  infinitesimal  glasses  of  the  green  liqueur 
stood  before  them. 

"Mais  avec  du  glace,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Beck. 

"  What 's  that ;  what 's  that  ? "  inquired  the 
Major  anxiously,  as  the  glasses  were  as  sud- 
denly removed  by  the  abashed  Maxime. 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  167 

"Oh,  ice,  that's  all,"  replied  the  other. 
"  These  chaps  don't  know  what 's  what.  Leave 
'em  to  me.  One  has  to  know  how  to  handle 
'em." 

Following  the  entrance  of  the  Americans, 
the  cabaret  had  gradually  filled.  The  majority 
of  the  places  at  the  long  table  were  occupied 
now  by  a  curious  assemblage  of  sensation- 
seekers,  —  Germans  in  little  cloth  hats  of  dark 
green,  with  a  curled  feather  cropping  up  be- 
hind, Englishmen  in  tweeds  and  traveling- 
caps,  with  visors  fore  and  aft,  American  archi- 
tects from  the  Quartier,  so  well  disguised  by 
slouch  felts,  pointed  beards,  and  baggy  trou- 
sers, that  only  a  nasal  tang  in  their  slangy 
French  betrayed  their  nationality,  and  a  sprin- 
kling of  Frenchmen,  each  clasping  the  hand  of 
a  grisette.  Already  the  high-priest  of  Le  Ciel 
was  in  his  gilded  pulpit,  delivering  an  oration 
thickly  sown  with  "mes  soeurs "  and  "  mes 
freres  "  and  "  chers  benis,"  at  which  strangers 
and  Parisians  alike  laughed  uproariously,  and 
all  for  one  good  reason  —  because  the  French- 
men understood  !  Maxime  returned,  bringing 
the  five  liqueurs  in  larger  glasses  with  chopped 
ice.  The  head  angel  made  the  round  of  the 


168  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

table,  carrying,  on  a  pole,  the  gilded  image  of 
a  pig,  and  a  pseudo-sexton  stood  leaning  on 
the  rail  of  a  celestial  stairway  leading  to  the 
second  floor,  sprinkling  the  assemblage  with 
so-called  holy  water  from  a  colored  brush.  It 
was  all  very  French,  very  conventional,  —  or 
unconventional,  according  to  the  point  of  view 
of  the  spectator,  —  very  sacrilegious  from  any 
point  of  view. 

With  that  curious  instinct  of  womanhood 
which  seems  to  recognize  the  indelicate,  even 
in  unfamiliar  surroundings,  even  in  an  un- 
known tongue,  the  younger  Miss  Cogswell 
leaned  forward  suddenly  and  touched  the  Ma- 
jor on  the  hand. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said. 

"  Yes ! "  agreed  Appleby,  buttoning  his  coat, 
"  let 's  be  moving.  What  do  you  say  ?  Let 's 
go  to  Hell  —  I  mean,"  he  added,  with  a  blush, 
"  let 's  try  the  other  cabaret." 

The  Major  agreed  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He 
had  understood  nothing  of  the  mummery  going 
on  about  him,  but  he  was  possessed  by  the  con- 
viction that  in  some  way  his  party  was  the  butt 
of  the  occasion,  and  had  kept  looking  around 
abruptly,  in  hope  of  catching  the  angels  gig- 
gling behind  his  back. 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  169 

"  Will  you  ask  the  waiter  how  much  I  owe  ?  " 
He  appealed  to  Beck. 

How  much  ! 

Maxime  picked  these  two  essential  words 
out  of  the  rapid  phrase  like  a  squirrel  snap- 
ping a  peanut  from  its  shell.  He  had  not 
been  gargon  at  the  Cafe  Americain  for  nothing, 
Maxime.  His  countenance  assumed  an  ex- 
pression of  beatific  innocence  as  he  looked 
over  the  Major's  head,  at  the  high-priest  in  the 
gilded  pulpit. 

"  Tain  francs,"  he  observed,  mildly. 

This  was  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  P.  Hamilton 
Beck  which,  plainly,  must  be  taken  at  the 
flood.  The  elder  Miss  Cogswell  was  looking 
at  him  expectantly,  and  Heaven  had,  of  a  sud- 
den, grown  very  still.  He  leaped  into  the 
breach  with  all  the  eloquence  accumulated 
during  eight  months  of  French  II. 

"  Mon  foi,  non  !  cream  de  mint  coute  seule- 
ment  un  franc  la  verre  dans  les  e'tablissements 
plus  chers.  II  ne  faut  pas  nous  voler,  parceque 
nous  sont  etrangeres  !  " 

"  What 's  that ;  what 's  that  ?  "  said  the  Ma- 
jor. 

"  He 's  trying  to  rob  us,"  explained   Beck, 


170  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

much  excited.  "  Says  it 's  ten  francs.  It  can't 
possibly  be  more  than  five,  and  it  ought  to  be 
two  francs  fifty." 

The  Major  immediately  became  purple  with 
indignation. 

"  But,  God  bless  my  soul ! "  he  exclaimed, 
"  the  rascal  understands  English  as  well  as 
any  one  of  us.  What 's  the  use  of  wasting 
your  French  on  him  ?  " 

He  swung  round  upon  his  stool,  and  fixed 
an  eye,  which  was  celebrated  in  the  32d  Reg- 
ular Infantry,  upon  1'L  Majuscule.  That  worthy 
surveyed  with  unfeigned  astonishment  this  very 
angry,  red-faced  foreigner,  who  looked  as  if  he 
was  about  to  devour  him,  body  and  bones.  He 
had  not  the  most  remote  conception  of  the  ef- 
fect which  his  flaxen  wig,  and  his  ridiculous 
wings,  and  his  short  pleated  tunic,  and  his 
pink  tights,  and  his  huge  feet  in  their  gilded 
sandals,  produced  upon  the  Major ;  and  his  at- 
tempt at  extortion  was  strictly  in  line  with  the 
traditions  of  the  place.  Certainly,  it  was  all 
very  puzzling. 

"  You  ape  !  "  said  the  Major  furiously,  find- 
ing his  breath.  "  You  pinky-panky  little  scoun- 
drel !  You  an  angel  ?  Why  you  're  not  even 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  171 

shaved  !  You  get  two  francs  fifty,  that 's  what 
you  get,  and  not  a  red  cent  of  porbwure  either, 
you  Christmas-tree  image  !  " 

The  exact  phrasing  of  these  remarks  was 
somewhat  lost  upon  Maxime,  but  the  general 
trend  of  the  Major's  meaning  was  quite  unmis- 
takable. Nevertheless,  when  one  had  been 
valet  de  chambre  to  Captain  the  Honorable  Mi- 
chael Douglas,  one  was  not  routed  by  a  few  em- 
phatic words.  So  Maxime  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders apologetically,  and  reiterated  his  "Tain 
francs." 

"Damn  it,  sir,  no  I"  thundered  the  Major. 
"  And  don't  pretend  you  can't  understand  me. 
I  'm  a  short-tempered  man,  sir,  and  —  and  "  — 

He  pounded  with  his  fist  upon  the  table, 
seeking  a  fitting  expression  of  his  rage,  until 
the  little  liqueur  glasses  danced  like  kernels 
of  popping  corn.  But  young  Appleby  leaned 
toward  him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  He 
was  big  and  square-shouldered,  was  Appleby, 
and,  only  the  year  before,  he  had  performed 
prodigies  with  the  hammer  and  the  shot  in  the 
Intercollegiate  Games  j  but  his  eyes  were  very 
blue  and  gentle,  and  he  spoke  with  extreme 
mildness. 


172  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

"  Don't  let  us  have  any  trouble  here,  sir," 
he  said.  "  It  is  n't  as  if  we  were  alone.  We 
have  the  girls  with  us,  you  know.  Leave  the 
beggar  two  francs  fifty,  and  we  '11  go  on  to  the 
next  place." 

Now  the  Major,  with  all  his  fiery  temper, 
was  an  ardent  lover  of  discipline,  and  he  re- 
cognized reason  in  Appleby's  words.  So,  after 
an  instant,  he  deposited  the  amount  upon  the 
table,  rose  to  his  full  height,  with  his  eye  still 
riveted  on  Maxime,  and  then,  followed  by  the 
others,  stalked  majestically  toward  the  door. 

But  for  one  circumstance,  the  Americans 
had  never  gone  unmolested  past  Maxime's  fel- 
low-angels, and,  in  particular,  the  towering  form 
of  Gustave  Robine.  Maxime  himself  was  as- 
tounded that  no  celestial  hand  was  stretched 
out  to  bar  their  progress.  What  he  did  not 
understand  was  that,  while  one  may  enter  Le 
Ciel  on  the  strength  of  an  accomplishment  not 
possessed  by  the  other  immortals,  the  achieve- 
ment does  not  necessarily  imply  that  one  is 
persona  grata  in  their  eyes,  or,  in  the  least  de- 
gree, sure  of  their  support.  The  management 
was  responsible  for  Maxime,  and  the  edict  had 
gone  forth  that  the  Angliches  were  to  be  turned 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  173 

over  to  him.  But  obedience  to  this  command 
did  not  go  hand  in  hand  with  approval  thereof. 
The  high-priest  and  the  sexton  and  all  the 
angels  had  looked  on  sourly,  as  he  appropri- 
ated the  Major's  party,  for  it  is  the  Americans 
who  give  the  largest  pourboires ;  and,  although 
they  did  not  wholly  comprehend  the  dispute 
which  had  arisen,  it  was  evident  that  the  lin- 
guistic angel  had  met  with  disaster  at  the  very 
outset,  and  they  were  proportionately  gratified. 
So,  when  Maxime  glanced  about  in  search 
of  succor,  he  found  himself  abandoned  in  his 
discomfiture.  The  other  angels  were  smiling 
broadly,  and  nudging  each  other  with  their 
pink  elbows  ;  the  high-priest,  with  his  fat  hands 
on  the  pulpit's  edge,  was  looking  down  at  him 
with  a  grin ;  the  sexton  above  his  head  waved 
his  brush  to  and  fro  and  chanted,  "  Ora  pro 
nobis  ! "  in  a  high,  whining  voice.  A  French 
student  at  the  further  end  of  the  table  said 
"  Roule ! "  and  his  companion  laughed  shrilly. 
Even  Gustave,  at  the  door,  was  leaning  on  his 
halberd  and  chuckling,  for  he  had  not  forgot- 
ten that  Maxime,  once  sure  of  his  position, 
had  demanded  repayment  of  the  fifty  francs. 
All  this  was  sufficiently  intolerable,  but  a 


174  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

real  disaster,  more  terrible  than  mere  ridicule, 
confronted  Maxime.  The  creme  de  menthe 
was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  one  franc  a  glass,  and 
it  was  out  of  his  pocket  that  the  deficit  would 
have  to  be  made  good.  As  this  tragic  thought 
smote  him  full  and  fair,  he  bounded  forward 
past  the  other  angels,  dodged  nimbly  under 
Gustave's  outstretched  arm,  charged  through 
the  swinging  doors,  and  emerged  with  a  shout 
upon  the  boulevard  de  Clichy. 

The  Major's  party  had  paused  before  the 
entrance  of  L'Enfer,  while  Beck  parleyed  with 
the  courteous  demon  in  scarlet  tights  who  kept 
the  door,  and  the  others  stood  by,  sublimely 
unconscious  of  the  none  too  complimentary 
comments  of  a  half  score  of  cochers  and  boule- 
vard loungers  who  surrounded  them.  Into  the 
midst  of  this  assemblage  swooped  PL  Majus- 
cule, his  flaxen  wig  awry,  his  wings  bobbing 
wildly  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  white  tunic 
fluttering  in  the  wind.  Blind  to  consequences, 
he  darted  upon  the  unsuspecting  Major,  and 
seized  him  furiously  by  the  coat. 

"  Eh !  vieille  saucisse ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Tu 
te  riches  de  moi  —  quoi  ?  " 

Now  John  Appleby  had  never  enjoyed  the 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  175 

advantages  of  French  II.,  which  shed  such 
effulgence  upon  his  classmate,  but  he  knew 
the  answer  to  this  question,  none  the  less.  It 
had  been  taught  him  in  the  boxing-room  of  his 
athletic  club,  and  it  was  surprisingly  conclusive 
when  applied  to  the  under  jaw  of  an  infuriated 
angel.  The  ruby  and  white  arc-lights  before 
the  cabarets  suddenly  joined  in  a  mad  waltz, 
the  cabarets  themselves  turned  upside  down, 
the  cochers  and  loungers  swooped  into  the  air 
like  pigeons,  a  passing  tram  leaped  into  the 
trees  on  the  further  side  of  the  driveway  and 
disappeared,  and,  from  somewhere,  a  factory 
whistle  came  close  up  to  Maxime's  side  and 
said,  "  Oo-oo-ooo-oooo  !  "  in  his  ear. 

He  came  to  himself  slowly.  There  was  an 
acrid  taste  in  his  mouth,  and  this,  upon  inves- 
tigation, proved  to  be  boulevard  mud.  There 
was  something  fuzzy  gripped  tightly  in  his  right 
hand,  and  this  presently  resolved  itself  into  his 
wings.  Then  he  saw  his  feet,  which  were  ele- 
vated above  the  level  of  his  head,  by  reason  of 
being  on  the  curb,  while  the  rest  of  his  person 
was  in  the  gutter.  Then  the  mammoth  red 
face  of  a  cocher  bulged  out  of  the  night,  close 
to  his  own,  and  a  voice  said,  — 


176  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

"  Have  you  harm,  angel  ?  " 

Then  he  remembered,  sat  up,  and  looked 
around. 

On  the  boulevard  de  Clichy,  spectators 
grow  out  of  the  ground,  spontaneously,  when 
there  is  an  excuse  for  their  presence.  A  hun- 
dred or  more  now  surrounded  Maxime,  with 
open  mouths,  and  staring  eyes  that  slid  to  and 
fro  from  his  prostrate  form  to  the  faces  of  an 
agent  and  a  vehement  gentleman  in  a  frock 
coat  and  a  flat-brimmed  huit  reflets,  who  were 
disputing  violently.  In  the  crowd  were  all  the 
other  angels,  and  the  better  part  of  those  who 
had  been  seated  at  the  table  of  Heaven.  The 
sexton,  brush  in  hand,  was  gaping  over  the 
agent's  shoulder,  the  high-priest  was  explaining 
the  affair,  with  much  elaboration,  to  all  who 
would  listen  to  him,  and  above  the  rest  tow- 
ered the  face  of  Gustave  Robine,  still  smiling 
blandly.  The  only  unconcerned  figure  in  sight 
was  that  of  a  courteous  demon  in  scarlet  tights, 
who  was  staring  up  at  the  sky  from  the  door- 
way of  L'Enfer.  For  Beck  had  slipped  a  gold 
piece  into  his  hand,  —  as  the  Major  and  his 
party  hurried  inside,  dragging  the  protesting 
Appleby  by  the  arm,  —  and  he  knew  how  to 


A  LATTER-DAY   LUCIFER  177 

keep  his  counsel.  After  all,  the  sanctity  of  hos- 
pitality must  be  respected,  even  in  Hell. 

"  But  no,  I  tell  you,  but  no  !  "  exclaimed  the 
gentleman  of  the  huit  reflets,  who  was  none 
other  than  the  manager  of  Heaven. 

"  It  is  equal  to  me !  It  is  equal  to  me  !  " 
stormed  the  agent.  "  I  saw  it,  do  you  hear  ? 
He  was  struck,  and  the  law  does  not  allow  — 
They  went  in  there  "  — 

He  made  a  motion,  as  if  to  thrust  the  other 
aside  and  plunge  toward  the  entrance  of  L'En- 
fer.  But  the  manager  of  Heaven  was  not  to 
be  thus  outdone.  He  was  determined  that  the 
incident  should  be  considered  closed  ;  and  for 
this  there  were  reasons.  It  was  but  the  begin- 
ning of  the  tourist  season,  and  the  foreign  cli- 
entele must  not  be  antagonized.  A  paragraph 
in  the  "Matin,"  a  sensational  article  in  the 
"  Herald "  of  to-morrow,  and  the  Angliches 
would  believe  that  the  Cabaret  du  Ciel  was  no 
safe  place  for  foreigners  to  enter.  In  agonized 
imagination  he  saw  the  gate  receipts  of  Hea- 
ven dwindling,  disappearing.  It  were  better, 
far  better,  to  sacrifice  Maxime.  He  grasped 
the  agent  by  the  arm,  and  pointed  to  the  fal- 
len angel,  who  was  still  seated  in  the  gutter, 


178  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

collecting  his  scattered  wits,  with  a  vacant 
stare. 

"Look  you,"  he  said,  persuasively,  "this 
tripe,  this  species  of  onion,  this  example  of  an 
eel,  is  the  cause  of  all.  It  is  I  who  know,  n'est 
ce  pas  ?  being  his  patron.  Eh  b'en,  I  assure 
you  that  it  is  a  drunkard  of  the  most  aban- 
doned. Thirteen  times  in  the  dozen,  one  finds 
him  in  the  fog,  rigid  as  the  Obelisk,  bon  Dieu ! 
not  merely  lit,  voyons,  but  flaming,  —  as  full  as 
Robespierre's  donkey, — asphyxiated!  It  is 
not  a  man,  sac  a  papier !  It  is  a  sponge  —  but 
a  sponge,  do  you  understand  ?  —  a  pompier ! 
He  dries  glasses — poof  t — like  that!  II  lave 
sa  gueule  la-dedans,  nothing  less  !  " 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Gustave  Robine,  and  all  the 
angels  applauded.  The  agent  paused,  doubt- 
ful of  what  course  to  pursue,  overwhelmed  by 
this  burst  of  eloquence,  and  Top-Hat,  perceiv- 
ing the  impression  he  had  made,  addressed 
himself  to  Maxime. 

"  Waffle  !  "  he  cried,  contemptuously. 
"  Cream  of  a  tart !  Thou  wast  there,  then,  the 
day  of  the  distribution,  O  stupid  as  thy  feet ! 
And  who  art  thou,  let  us  hear,  to  find  thyself 
in  a  position  to  apply  kicks  to  the  clients  ?  If 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  179 

thou  wert  employed  at  La  Villette,  where  they 
slaughter  pigs,  sacred  stove,  thy  first  blow 
would  be  suicide  !  " 

He  rose,  in  a  majestic  sweep,  to  the  pinnacle 
of  supreme  courtesy. 

"  Monsieur  le  marquis  has,  perhaps,  hurt 
himself,  stumbling  by  accident?  Is  it  per- 
mitted to  the  obedient  servitor  of  monsieur  le 
marquis  to  inquire  if  monsieur  le  marquis  has 
sustained  any  damage  by  reason  of  his  deplor- 
able mischance  ? " 

He  descended,  in  a  graceful  curve,  to  the 
depths  of  utter  scorn. 

"  Animal  low  of  ceiling !  Camel !  Gourd  ! 
Ancient  senator  !  Gas-jet !  Shut  thy  mouth, 
or  I  jump  within  !  " 

And  he  paused,  —  breathless,  but  triumph- 
ant. 

It  was  magnificent !  In  the  annals  of  Heaven 
there  was  record  of  no  such  climax  of  vituper- 
ation. The  angels  surveyed  their  patron  with 
undisguised  admiration.  Even  the  agent 
touched  the  visor  of  his  cap. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "  I  yield  the  field  to 
you.  Your  vocabulary  is  unrivaled  —  unless 
by  General  Cambronne  ! " 


180  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

"  Monsieur,  you  flatter  me,"  replied  the  other, 
with  a  bow. 

Some  one  had  helped  PL  Majuscule  to  his 
feet,  and  he  stood  there,  a  preposterous  figure, 
in  soiled  pink  tights,  holding  out  his  wings, 
with  his  huge  feet  turned  in  like  a  pigeon's. 

"  Monsieur  le  directeur  "  —  he  began. 

"  He  speaks  !  "  cried  Huit  Reflets,  whirling 
around  and  addressing  the  throng.  "  He  dares 
to  speak,  this  bad  sou,  this  oyster !  He  does 
not  comprehend  that  he  is  discharged.  He 
counts  that  I  am  about  to  resign  in  his  favor  ! 
Ah,  non,  it  is  too  much  !  " 

He  flung  himself  about  again,  facing  Max- 
ime. 

"Well,  then,"  he  added  with  forced  calm, 
"  thou  art  put  at  the  door,  is  it  clear  ?  Take 
thy  rags  from  yonder,  and  begone  !  " 

"  Mais,  monsieur  "  — 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  the  director,  flinging  his  arms 
upward  ;  and  immediately  vanished  within  the 
silver  gates  of  Heaven,  followed  by  his  person- 
nel, with  the  fallen  angel  bringing  up  the  rear. 

Half  an  hour  later,  having  exchanged  his 
celestial  raiment  for  his  former  earthly  garb, 
Monsieur  Perrot  sat  in  solitary  state  at  a  table 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  181 

in  the  cafe  Cyrano,  and  pondered  the  details 
of  a  project  of  revenge.  The  idea  had  come 
to  him  suddenly,  like  an  inspiration,  on  see- 
ing the  nonchalant  demon  at  the  portals  of 
L'Enfer,  but  it  required  arranging,  elaboration. 
A  man  who  made  one  blunder  was  but  human, 
but  a  man  who  made  two  in  succession  —  that 
was  a  mere  root  of  celery  !  So  1'L  Majuscule 
thought  hard.  And  when  the  will  is  so  ear- 
nest, it  is  strange  if  the  way  be  not  forthcoming. 
At  midnight  he  arose  with  a  sigh  of  satisfac- 
tion, and  took  his  way  homeward,  smiling. 

It  was  barely  eight  o'clock,  the  following 
evening,  when  Maxime  entered  L'Enfer.  He 
was  tastefully  dressed  in  an  excessively  checked 
suit  and  a  silk  hat,  and  he  wore  a  full  black 
beard  and  spectacles,  and  rolled  his  r's  in 
speaking,  in  the  fashion  of  the  South.  The 
demon  at  the  door,  unsuspecting,  greeted  him 
effusively  as  "  cher  damne,"  and  piloted  him  to 
a  table  at  the  further  end  of  the  cabaret.  The 
table  had  a  ground-glass  top,  through  which 
shone  electric  lights  which  kept  changing  mys- 
teriously from  green  to  red  and  back  again,  and 
the  whole  interior  of  L'Enfer  was  of  imitation 
rock,  diversified  by  grinning  faces.  It  was  very 


182  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

artistic,  and,  what  was  better,  very  dark.  Max- 
ime  was  unnecessarily  mistrustful  of  his  false 
beard. 

At  this  early  hour,  he  was  the  only  visitor. 
An  obliging  demon  supplied  him  with  a  green 
chartreuse,  and,  upon  invitation,  procured  an- 
other for  himself,  and  took  the  opposite  seat. 

The  conversation,  which  began  with  com- 
monplaces, soon  assumed  a  more  intimate  tone. 
Monsieur,  it  appeared,  was  from  Toulouse,  but 
this  was  not  his  first  visit  to  L'Enfer.  In  fact, 
a  place  so  amusing  —  what  ?  He  never  missed 
it  when  he  came  to  Paris. 

Oh,  but  monsieur  was  too  good ! 

No,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  for  his  own  plea- 
sure. It  suited  him  to  a  marvel,  blague  k  part ! 
And  often,  he  had  had  a  curious  fancy  —  to  be 
a  demon  himself,  imagine !  To  serve  in  the 
cabaret  for  just  one  evening,  by  way  of  variety 
—  for,  as  for  himself,  he  gave  less  for  a  life 
without  variety  than  did  a  fish  for  an  apple. 
That  was  the  reason  he  had  sometimes  thought 
of  applying  to  the  management  for  permission 
to  —  but  then,  of  course,  the  idea  was  fantas- 
tic, and,  without  doubt,  quite  impossible. 

Oh,  quite  impossible,  monsieur! 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  183 

But,  after  all,  why  not?  Not  the  manage- 
ment, naturally.  That  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, it  went  without  saying.  But  an  obliging 
demon,  perhaps  —  a  bon  type,  who  understood 
these  eccentricities,  as  a  man  of  the  world  — 
one  who  would  consent  to  a  brief  illness  —  for 
one  night  only  —  and  who  would  provide  a 
substitute,  in  the  person  of  monsieur  I  Fantas- 
tic —  what  ?  —  rigolo,  mon  Dieu  !  —  very  rig- 
olo,  and,  of  course,  quite  impossible. 

In  some  mysterious  fashion  a  louis  suddenly 
made  its  appearance  on  the  illuminated  table. 

Oh,  quite  impossible,  monsieur  !  Evidently, 
affairs  did  not  arrange  themselves  like  that. 
Monsieur  must  understand  that  the  pourboires 
which  one  gained  in  Hell  were  enormous  —  but 
enormous  !  It  would  be  to  throw  away  a  for- 
tune, to  give  up  one's  place  for  an  entire  even- 
ing. For  forty  francs,  perhaps  —  but  then  it 
was  certain  that  monsieur  would  not  care  — 

There  was  a  tiny  click  upon  the  table-top, 
and  the  one  louis  had  become  two.  A  most 
surprising  place,  L'Enfer ! 

Ah !  But  in  addition,  there  were  details  to 
be  arranged,  and  one  could  not  talk  with  frank- 
ness in  the  cabaret. 


184  A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER 

The  doors  at  the  further  end  swung  open, 
and  the  demon  of  the  gate  made  his  appear- 
ance, ushering  in  a  group  of  tourists.  Max- 
ime  substituted  two  francs  for  the  two  louis, 
and  rose. 

"  That  for  the  liqueurs,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"  and  what  you  say  is  true.  The  cafe  Cyrano 
is  a  better  place  for  talking.  At  midnight." 

Fifty-seven  francs.  The  project  had  cost 
him  fifty-seven  francs,  said  the  fallen  angel  to 
himself,  as,  twenty-four  hours  later,  he  dusted 
an  illuminated  table.  What  with  his  beard,  and 
his  spectacles,  and  two  chartreuses  in  L'Enfer, 
and  six  demis  at  the  cafe*  Cyrano  —  for  the  con- 
ference had  been  long  —  and,  finally,  the  bribe 
to  the  obliging  demon,  revenge  had  cost  him 
fifty-seven  francs  and  it  was  not  yet  complete  ! 
But  the  prospects  therefor  were  fair.  He 
chuckled  silently,  with  his  eyes  on  the  parti- 
wall  which  divided  Hell  from  Heaven.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  stir  in  the  cabaret.  A 
voice  was  calling,  "  This  way,  chers  damnes,  to 
the  Hall  of  the  Infernal  Visions  !  "  and  the 
clients  were  rising  from  their  tables,  and  crowd- 
ing out  like  sheep  through  a  narrow  door  to 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  185 

the  right.  Almost  immediately  the  place  was 
empty,  save  for  the  fallen  angel  and  two  other 
demons,  clearing  away  the  liqueur  glasses,  and 
setting  the  stools  in  place.  It  was  the  dreamt- 
of  moment.  Maxime  walked  carelessly  toward 
the  door. 

In  Le  Ciel,  the  long  table  was  full  from  end 
to  end.  The  high-priest  in  his  pulpit  was  de- 
livering his  accustomed  discourse  with  extreme 
satisfaction,  and  the  head  angel  making  the 
round  of  the  room,  bearing  the  golden  pig  upon 
the  pole.  The  angels,  each  in  his  place,  abode 
the  moment  of  the  clients'  exodus  into  the  Hall 
of  the  Celestial  Visions,  which  was  coincident 
with  the  semi-hourly  harvest  of  pourboires.  In 
particular,  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  party 
of  American  tourists,  under  direction  of  a  uni- 
formed guide.  These  were  worthy  of  com- 
ment, and  received  it.  It  appeared  that  the 
thin  lady  with  the  loose  cloth  costume  was 
an  empty  bed  ticking.  There  were  other  re- 
marks, but  this,  from  Gustave  Robine,  was  the 
most  successful.  However,  there  were  the 
pourboires  to  be  considered,  so  the  angels  spoke 
in  whispers. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  calm  of  Heaven  was  broken 


186  A  LATTER-DAY   LUCIFER 

by  an  appalling  sound,  something  midway  be- 
tween a  shriek  and  a  bark,  and  on  the  end  of 
the  table  nearest  the  door  appeared  a  terrible 
form,  black-bearded  and  all  in  scarlet,  with  two 
long  feathers  nodding  from  his  cap,  and  a  pol- 
ished two-pronged  pitchfork  brandished  in  one 
upraised  hand.  An  instant  he  paused,  superbly 
statuesque,  his  eyes  blazing,  an  incarnation  of 
demoniac  fury.  And,  as  if  the  sensation  pro- 
duced by  his  dramatic  entrance  were  not  suffi- 
cient, the  newcomer  received  unexpected  sup- 
port from  the  thin  lady  in  loose  cloth  costume, 
who,  upon  his  appearance,  promptly  exclaimed 
"  Good  land  ! "  and  fell  backward  off  her  stool 
upon  the  floor. 

Then  Bedlam  broke  loose.  The  doorway  of 
Le  Ciel  is  less  than  a  metre  in  width,  and  when 
a  score  of  affrighted  tourists,  and  seven  angels, 
and  six  French  students  with  their  grisettes, 
and  a  high-priest,  and  two  corpulent  Germans, 
and  a  sexton,  and  Gustave  Robine  are  sud- 
denly and  simultaneously  imbued  with  a  desire 
to  sample  the  air  of  the  boulevard  de  Clichy, 
confusion  is  apt  to  result.  There  were  shrieks 
and  groans,  protestations,  oaths  in  three  lan- 
guages, a  wild  chaos  of  legs  and  arms,  wings, 


A  LATTER-DAY    LUCIFER  187 

white  tunics,  traveling  caps,  tweed  suits,  and 
golden  stools,  and  over  all  pranced  the  crim- 
son form  of  the  invader,  whirling  up  and  down 
the  table  with  unearthly  cries,  and  kicking  the 
liqueur  glasses  and  little  saucers  in  every  di- 
rection. They  were  all  agreed,  both  mortals 
and  celestials,  in  believing  him  a  madman,  and 
agreed,  also,  in  thinking  the  pavement  of  the 
boulevard  a  thing  greatly  to  be  desired.  The 
demon  paused  presently,  and  watched  them 
struggling  in  a  frenzied  mass  about  the  door, 
and  then  he  vanished  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
appeared. 

For  PL  Majuscule  had  not  wasted  the  early 
hours  of  the  evening  in  L'Enfer,  and  he  knew 
now  that  the  rear  entrances  of  Heaven  and 
Hell  gave  upon  a  common  court,  full  of  barrels, 
and  empty  bottles,  and  discarded  properties, 
and  even  as  the  panic  he  had  created  was  at  its 
height,  he  had  made  the  circuit,  and  was  bus- 
tling into  his  original  disguise. 

The  doorkeeper  of  L'Enfer,  on  the  outlook 
for  clients,  had  stared  in  stupefaction  as  Max- 
ime,  in  his  demon's  garb,  darted  past  him  and 
plunged  into  the  entrance  of  Le  Ciel,  and  when, 
a  moment  later,  his  ears  were  startled  by  the 


188  A  LATTER-DAY   LUCIFER 

pandemonium  inside  the  rival  cabaret,  he  had 
first,  with  commendable  presence  of  mind, 
shouted  "  Au  feu !  A  1'assassin  !  Au  secours  ! " 
to  his  fellows  in  L'Enfer,  and  then  repeated 
the  cry  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  on  the  curb  of 
the  boulevard.  So  it  was  that  the  clients  and 
personnel  of  Heaven  and  Hell  reached  the  side- 
walk almost  simultaneously.  Gustave,  halberd 
in  hand,  came  full  upon  a  demon  barring  his 
path,  and,  mistaking  him  for  the  original  in- 
truder, fell  upon  him  furiously.  Other  demons 
came  to  their  companion's  aid,  other  angels  to 
Gustave's,  and  immediately  fourscore  individ- 
uals were  battling  desperately,  without  know- 
ing or  caring  why.  Agents  appeared  as  if  by 
magic,  screaming  for  reinforcement,  and  pull- 
ing fainting  women  out  of  the  meMe  by  their 
heads  and  heels.  Spectators  ran  up  by  hun- 
dreds, and  formed  a  rampart  around  the  fray. 
And,  to  add  chaos  to  confusion,  a  detachment 
of  sapeurs-pompiers  presently  drove  up  in  a  red 
wagon,  their  horn  hee-hawing  like  an  impatient 
donkey.  Last  of  all,  a  thin  gentleman  with 
preposterously  large  feet,  black-bearded,  spec- 
tacled, and  wearing  an  excessively  checked 
suit,  came  calmly  out  of  L'Enfer,  shouldered 


A  LATTER-DAY  LUCIFER  189 

his  way  to  a  position  of  vantage  in  the  throng, 
and  stood,  smiling  down  upon  the  havoc. 

Peace  was  restored.  But  a  half  dozen  of 
the  combatants  were  already  in  the  hands  of 
the  police,  and  were  hurried  away  to  the  poste, 
protesting  volubly.  Among  these  were  Gus- 
tave  Robine,  in  a  pitiful  state  of  demoraliza- 
tion, and  the  doorkeeper  of  L'Enfer,  and  the 
director  of  Le  Ciel,  with  his  huits  reflets,  crushed 
to  an  unrecognizable  mass,  clutched  despe- 
rately in  his  hand. 

Then  every  second  person  in  the  crowd  ex- 
plained to  his  neighbor  how  it  all  occurred, 
and,  among  others,  a  stalwart  workingman  pro- 
ceeded to  enlighten  the  spectacled  gentleman 
at  his  side. 

"  It  appears  there  was  a  madman,"  he  said. 
"  Bon  sang  !  What  places,  these  cabarets  — 
what  infected  boxes,  name  of  a  dog  !  " 

"  Ah,  c.a  !  "  replied  the  other,  rolling  his  r's 
in  speaking,  in  the  fashion  of  the  South,  and 
leering  at  the  back  of  the  struggling  director. 
"  But  then  such  an  affair  is  in  the  chapter  of 
variety,  and  as  for  me,  I  care  less  for  a  life 
without  variety  than  does  a  fish  for  an  apple  ! " 


Poire ! 


LIEUTENANT     EUGENE     DROUIN 
slid  from  his  saddle  with  a  little  grunt, 
slipped  his  arm  through  the  bridle-rein, 
and  then,  with  his  riding  crop,  rapped  smartly 
on  the  round,  tin-topped  table  nearest  to  him. 
At  the  summons,  a  small  square  door  on  the 
left  of    the    archway   snapped    open,   and   a 
stumpy  waiter,  shaped  like  a  domino,  appeared 
abruptly  on  the  sill. 

"  Froid  !  "  shouted  the  officer. 
The  domino  waiter  made  a  vague  gesture  in 
the  air  with  one  fat  hand,  and  then  vanished 
as  suddenly  as  he  had  appeared,  closing  the 


POIREI  191 


door  behind  him  with  a  slam.  If  he  had  but 
seen  fit  to  observe  "  Cuckoo !  "  the  whole  af- 
fair —  the  sort  of  chalet  from  which  he  emerged, 
the  small  square  door,  and  his  own  perform- 
ance —  would  have  borne  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance to  a  Swiss  clock  striking  one. 

Lieutenant  Drouin  detached  an  end  of  the 
rein  from  the  snaffle-bar,  knotted  it  about  the 
back  of  one  chair  and  flung  himself  into  an- 
other. 

"  Poof  !  "  he  said,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

It  was  exactly  one  o'clock,  and  the  Pr£  Cat- 
alan was  deserted,  save  for  a  half  dozen  cats 
of  various  breeds  and  colors,  chasing  each 
other  about  under  the  chairs  and  tables,  and 
two  brilliant  macaws  sitting  on  wooden  perches 
in  an  apparent  state  of  coma,  broken  only  by 
an  occasional  reflective  "  Wawk  ! "  Once,  a 
high  cart  flashed  in  an  opening  of  the  trees  to 
the  left,  and  then  disappeared  with  a  rattle  of 
harness  chains,  in  the  direction  of  the  porte 
Dauphine.  For  the  rest,  there  was  nothing  to 
suggest  that  Paris  might  not  be  fifty  kilometres 
distant.  All  the  world  was  at  breakfast. 

Eugene  stretched  his  legs,  squinted  at  the 
toes  of  his  narrow  riding  boots,  and  swore 


192  POIRE! 


tenderly  at  himself  for  having  refused  the  in- 
vitation of  the  Marquise  de  Baucheron.  Ex- 
perience might  have  taught  him  that  Rosa  de 
Mirecourt  would  not  be  in  the  Bois  that  morn- 
ing. It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Rosa's  to  be  in  evi- 
dence on  every  occasion  when  her  presence  was 
not  to  be  desired,  and  never  to  turn  up  when  one 
was  in  the  mood  to  chat  or  breakfast  with  her. 
Eugene  had  measured  the  Acacias  bridle-path 
at  a  canter  eight  times  since  noon,  scanning 
the  driveway  for  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  and 
scarlet  victoria  with  the  cream-colored  mares, 
and  all  in  vain.  Rosa  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
By  this  time,  no  doubt,  some  other  lieutenant 
of  chasseurs  was  thrashing  out  the  latest  gos- 
sip of  the  demi-monde  over  her  breakfast  table 
in  the  rue  de  Bassano,  and  still  another  was, 
in  all  probability,  filling  his  place  at  Madame 
de  Baucheron's,  and  eating  the  Friday  break- 
fast—  sole  cardinale  and  ceufs  brouilles  aux 
crevettes  —  for  which  her  chef  was  famous. 
Baste  !  what  a  world  ! 

The  domino  waiter  reappeared  presently  in 
the  doorway,  came  quickly  across  to  Eugene's 
table  with  a  curious,  tottering  shuffle  born  of  his 
swaddling  apron,  and  served  a  small  white  mug 


POIRE!  193 


of  cold  milk  as  if  it  had  been  Chateau  Latour- 
Blanche. 

"  Beautiful  weather,  my  lieutenant,"  he  ven- 
tured cheerfully,  for  he  had  done  his  service, 
and  knew  the  meaning  of  the  single  epaulette. 

But  Eugene  was  in  no  mood  for  light  con- 
versation. For  sole  reply,  he  paid  his  score, 
and  then  drank  the  milk  slowly,  looking  out 
toward  the  lower  lake,  across  the  wide  stretch 
of  fresh  grass  mottled  with  flecks  of  sunlight 
sifted  through  the  foliage  above.  At  his  side 
Vivandiere  nuzzled  the  turf  along  the  border 
of  the  graveled  terrasse,  the  lithe  muscles  rip- 
pling in  her  polished  neck,  and  her  deep  eye 
shifting  now  and  again  in  its  socket  as  she 
looked  doubtfully,  almost  pleadingly,  toward 
her  master.  They  were  well  known  on  the  Al- 
lee  and  the  bridle-path  of  the  avenue  du  Bois, 
these  two,  —  the  young  chasseur,  tall,  clean- 
cut,  and  slender,  with  a  complexion  like  a  girl's, 
and  the  gayety  of  Polichinelle  himself,  in  full 
red  breeches  and  tunic  of  black  and  light  blue  ; 
and  the  chestnut  mare,  nervous  and  alert,  with 
her  racing  lines,  and  her  long,  leisurely  gallop, 
superb  in  its  suggestion  of  reserve  speed  and 
unflagging  endurance. 


194  POIRE! 


The  fates  were  kind  to  Lieutenant  Eugene 
Drouin.  Paris,  spring,  youth,  an  ample  for- 
tune, a  commission  in  the  chasseurs,  good 
looks,  a  thoroughbred  Arab,  and  a  half  dozen 
women  frankly  in  love  with  him,  —  surely  there 
was  nothing  lacking;  and  yet  he  knew  that 
something  was  lacking,  though  he  could  not 
have  said  what,  as  he  sat  sprawling  in  his  little 
iron  chair  at  the  Prd  Catalan  that  morning. 

He  straightened  himself  suddenly,  as  she 
came  up  the  driveway  from  the  left,  and  then 
rose  with  a  stiff  salute,  for,  a  pace  or  so  behind, 
walked  Vieux  Cesar,  so-called  by  an  irreverent 
garrison,  leading  two  horses,  one  limping  badly. 
Eugene  had  seen  him  but  once,  at  the  review 
of  the  Quatorze  Juillet,  but,  though  he  was 
not  in  uniform  now,  the  fierce  gray  mustache 
and  keen  black  eyes  of  General  Tournadour 
were  too  familiar  to  Parisians  to  pass  unrecog- 
nized in  a  throng,  much  less  under  circum- 
stances such  as  these.  When  one  has  been 
Military  Governor  of  Paris,  and  held  the  port- 
folio of  war,  one  does  not  achieve  incognito 
merely  by  donning  a  black  civile.  So  Eugene 
saluted  the  general  —  but  with  his  eyes  on  the 
girl. 


POIRE!  195 


She  was  not  beautiful,  he  told  himself,  in 
that  first  moment  of  surprise  and  swift  obser- 
vation, but  about  her,  as  she  barely  glanced  at 
him  in  passing,  there  was  an  indefinably  com- 
pellant  charm  which  arrested  his  attention  and 
held  it,  like  an  unrecognized  but  strangely 
sweet  perfume,  suddenly  met  with  in  a  familiar 
spot  where  there  is  no  apparent  reason  for  its 
presence.  Without  doubt,  it  was  a  very  little 
thing.  He  knew  enough  of  such  matters  to  be 
aware  that  an  unanalyzed  attraction  of  the  kind 
which,  at  first  glance,  makes  a  woman  appear 
utterly  irresistible,  is  apt,  on  closer  acquaint- 
ance, to  resolve  itself  into  the  merest  trifle  of 
dissimilarity  from  other  women,  —  a  tilt  of  a 
lip-corner,  a  dimple  in  an  unlikely  spot,  a  trick 
with  the  hands  or  the  head,  a  rebellious  wisp  of 
hair.  For  he  was  very  philosophical,  and  very 
wise,  was  Eugene,  and  twenty-six  years  of  age, 
into  the  bargain.  So  there  was  nothing  one 
could  tell  him  about  women.  But,  in  any 
event,  there  was  no  time  to  define  the  partic- 
ular charm  in  question.  He  felt  rather  than 
saw  it,  as  she  went  by  him,  with  the  faintest 
possible  whiff  of  orris,  and  the  gleam  of  a 
patent-leather  boot  at  the  edge  of  her  habit. 


196  POIRE! 


No,  she  was  certainly  not  beautiful,  but  she 
was  something  dangerously,  deliciously  akin, 
said  Lieutenant  Drouin  to  himself ;  and  that, 
in  the  unloveliest  costume  that  can  be  worn  by 
womankind,  —  a  deep-green  habit  of  extreme 
severity,  and  a  squat  derby,  like  a  boy's,  with 
an  elastic  strap  brutally  grooving  her  ruddy 
hair. 

General  Tournadour  did  not  follow  the  girl 
beyond  the  spot  where  Eugene  was  standing, 
but  drew  up  abruptly,  and  indicated  the  lamed 
horse  with  a  gesture  of  irritation. 

"  A  beautiful  affair,  my  word,  lieutenant ! " 
he  said.  "  This  animal  stumbled,  back  there, 
and  has  received  some  injury,  —  I  know  not 
what.  We  have  walked  from  the  Alice,  in 
hope  of  finding  a  sapin  here,  and  all  without 
result." 

The  young  officer  was  already  feeling  the 
animal's  hocks  with  a  practiced  hand.  There 
was  a  swelling  just  above  the  right  fore  fet- 
lock, and  as  he  touched  it,  the  horse  winced 
and  kicked  out  sharply. 

"A  bad  wrench,  I  fear,  my  general,"  said 
Eugene.  "  He  should  have  an  hour's  rest,  at 
least."  Then,  looking  quickly  at  the  saddle, 


POIRE!  197 


"It  is  evident  that  madame  cannot  ride  him 
home.  No  doubt  they  will  give  him  a  stall  in 
the  farm  stable.  You  can  send  a  groom  out 
for  him  this  afternoon." 

"  Dieu  !  That  is  very  well,  monsieur,"  an- 
swered the  former  minister  of  war,  with  an  air 
of  perplexity  amusingly  in  contrast  with  his 
fierce  moustache.  " But  my  daughter"  — 

Now  Lieutenant  Drouin,  in  matters  where 
a  woman  was  concerned,  was  nothing  if  not 
adroit.  He  sent  a  flying  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  girl.  She  had  aroused  one  of  the 
comatose  macaws  from  his  lethargy,  and  now 
stood  watching  him  as  he  munched  the  biscuit 
she  had  taken  from  a  neighboring  table.  And 
again  Eugene  was  conscious  of  an  inexplicable 
but  very  decided  little  thrill. 

"  If  Mademoiselle  Tournadour  —  if  you,  my 
general,  will  consider  me  at  your  service,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  you  make  use  of  my  mare 
Vivandiere,  here.  She  is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb 
—  but,  perhaps,  not  unworthy  of  being  seen  in 
company  with  your  own  horse." 

The  General's  eyes  twinkled  at  the  boyish- 
ness of  the  remark.  He  knew  a  horse  as  well 
as  another,  Vieux  Cesar,  and  to  describe  the 


198  POIRE1 


superb  Arab  before  him  as  being,  perhaps,  not 
unworthy  of  being  seen  in  company  with  his 
own  sturdy  charger  was  a  bit  of  satire  much  to 
his  relish. 

"  Merci !  "  he  answered.  "  It  is  the  pro- 
posal of  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  But  my 
daughter  must  decide  if  it  is  possible  for  us  to 
accept  it.  In  the  matter  of  names,  monsieur, 
you  have  me  at  an  advantage." 

"  Pardon !  "  said  the  other.  "  I  should  have 
realized  that.  I  am  Eugene  Drouin,  lieutenant 
of  the  2gth  Chasseurs." 

"  Natalie  !  "  cried  the  General,  beckoning 
with  his  crop. 

As  Mademoiselle  Tournadour  came  forward, 
the  young  chasseur  again  made  a  confidant  of 
himself,  this  time  for  the  satisfaction  of  observ- 
ing that  he  was  an  imbecile,  and  that  a  man 
who  could  not  tell  at  the  first  glance  whether 
or  not  a  woman  was  entirely  beautiful,  deserved 
not  to  have  an  opportunity  of  discovering  the 
fact  at  all.  Their  eyes  met  fairly,  his  glowing 
with  delighted  surprise,  hers  touched  with  that 
expression  of  negative  inquiry  and  polite  inter- 
est which  immediately  precedes  an  introduc- 
tion. 


POIRE!  199 


"  My  daughter,"  said  the  General,  prodding 
the  air  with  his  crop  in  her  direction.  "Lieu- 
tenant Drouin,  of  the  2gth  Chasseurs,"  he 
added,  prodding  again,  in  the  direction  of 
Eugene.  "  Monsieur  le  lieutenant  has  been  so 
kind  as  to  offer  thee  the  use  of  his  own  horse, 
and  suggests  that  we  leave  Le  Cid  here  to  be 
cared  for  until  I  can  send  Victor  for  him.  I 
tell  him  thou  art  the  one  to  decide." 

"Monsieur,  you  are  truly  kind,"  said  the  girl 
easily  —  too  easily,  thought  Eugene  !  —  "  but  it 
would  be  to  presume  upon  your  generosity." 

"  But  it  is  nothing,"  protested  the  officer. 
"  Voyons  !  It  is  but  a  step  to  La  Muette,  and 
there  I  have  the  Ceinture !  " 

"  You  are  stationed  at  the  quartier  de  cava- 
lerie  ? "  asked  Tournadour. 

"  Rue  Desaix,  yes,  mon  ge'ne'ral,"  answered 
Eugene.  Thenj  turning  again  to  the  girl, 
"  Surely  you  must  consent,  mademoiselle.  It  is 
the  simplest  way.  And  this  afternoon,  if  you 
will  permit  me  "  — 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  General,  "  and  this  after- 
noon Victor  can  leave  your  horse  at  the  caserne 
as  he  is  coming  to  take  Le  Cid. 

"  Eh,  dis-donc,  Natalie,"  he  added,  fretfully, 


200  POIRE! 


observing  that  the  girl  still  hesitated.  "  Don't 
make  difficulties,  my  dear.  There  is  breakfast 
—  yes,  breakfast  to  be  considered,  and  it  is  one, 
and  past.  Since  the  lieutenant  is  so  kind  "  — 

"  Since  the  lieutenant  is  so  kind,"  said  his 
daughter  with  a  smile,  "eh  bien,  I  accept." 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for  Eugene  to 
shift  the  side-saddle  from  Le  Cid  to  Vivan- 
diere.  The  general  had  already  mounted,  and 
was  gazing  off  toward  the  porte  Dauphine, 
with  his  nose  in  the  air,  as  if  he  scented  break- 
fast from  afar. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,  monsieur,  your  Vivan- 
diere,  and  you  are  very  good,"  said  Mademoi- 
selle Tournadour,  as  the  chasseur  tightened  the 
girth,  after  her  boot  had  touched  his  hand,  and 
she  was  in  the  saddle. 

"  She  is  very  fortunate,  mademoiselle,"  an- 
swered Eugene,  curiously  embarrassed  for  one 
so  skilled  in  compliment.  "  If  she  wins,  I 
shall  feel  that  she  owes  the  race  to  this  good 
omen." 

"  The  race  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  The  Officers'  Steeple  Chase  at  Auteuil,  on 
Sunday." 

"  You  ride  her  yourself  ? " 


POIRE!  201 


There  was  a  strange  little  note  of  more  than 
casual  interest  in  the  question,  and  Eugene 
looked  up  suddenly.  For  the  second  time 
their  eyes  met. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  Why  ?  " 

"Why?  But  nothing,  monsieur,  except,  per- 
haps, to  wish  you  bonne  chance." 

She  touched  Vivandiere  with  her  heel. 

"  Adieu,  monsieur,"  she  added,  "  and  a  thou- 
sand thanks !  " 

Eugene  bowed. 

"  For  nothing,"  he  said,  "  and  au  revoir,  ma- 
demoiselle ! " 

Then  he  watched  them  out  of  sight,  with  his 
arm  through  Le  Cid's  bridle-rein,  and  his  trim 
English  saddle  sprawling  at  his  feet. 

There  was  something  delightfully  ingenuous, 
to  Eugene's  way  of  thinking,  in  Vieux  Cesar's 
method  of  unloading  the  burden  of  his  embar- 
rassment on  the  shoulders  of  the  first  young 
lieutenant  who  crossed  his  path,  and  then 
riding  off  serenely  to  breakfast,  leaving  the 
other,  as  it  were,  to  gather  up  and  disentangle 
the  loose  ends  of  the  situation.  He  was  half 
amused,  half  annoyed  that  his  offer  of  Vivan- 
diere had  not  been  taken  less  as  a  matter  of 


202  POIRE! 


course ;  but,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  he 
attended  with  fairly  good  grace  to  the  details 
of  stabling  Le  Cid,  and  arranging  to  send  for 
his  saddle,  and  then  struck  out  at  a  swinging 
gait  for  the  footpath  to  La  Muette.  For  all  of 
which  there  was  a  sufficient  reason  in  the  per- 
son of  Mademoiselle  Tournadour. 

Now,  as  he  revolved  the  meeting  in  his 
mind,  he  found  that  it  was  not  in  the  least  de- 
gree a  surprise.  Somehow,  he  had  always  ex- 
pected that  this  girl  would  step  suddenly  into 
his  life,  with  her  ruddy  hair  and  her  gray  eyes. 
It  seemed  to  him  to  be  something  which  the 
natural  evolution  of  that  life  demanded.  He 
had  sounded  every  note  in  the  gamut  of  emo- 
tions appropriate  to  a  man  in  his  position.  He 
had  had  his  serious,  almost  ascetic  moods, 
his  despondencies,  his  flights  of  folly,  his  im- 
pulses of  stern  ambition,  his  hours  of  morbid 
brooding  and  of  reckless  gayety.  He  could 
no  longer  number  his  love-affairs  with  any 
approach  to  accuracy.  They  were  hopelessly 
jumbled  in  his  memory,  by  very  reason  of  their 
number  and  their  triviality.  Here  and  there, 
a  face  stood  out  from  its  fellows  —  the  Baronne 
de  Banis,  Lady  Mary  Kaswellyn,  Rosa  de 


POIRE!  203 


Mirecourt,  or  the  Marquise  de  Baucheron  — 
but  none  of  these  impelled  him  to  regret. 
There  were  no  entanglements,  no  uncomfort- 
able circumstances  to  recall.  Not  a  stone  lay 
in  the  way  of  the  gate  of  the  future,  as,  in  his 
imagination,  it  swung  open  before  him.  As 
we  have  said,  the  fates  were  kind  to  Lieuten- 
ant Eugene  Drouin.  The  current  of  experi- 
ence had  borne  his  individual  shallop  over 
deeps  and  shallows  safely  and  with  a  song, 
and,  now  that  a  sudden  turn  of  the  stream  had 
shown  him  Natalie  Tournadour  waiting  on  the 
bank,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  most  natural 
thing  imaginable,  —  something  which  intuition 
had  taught  him  was  inevitable,  and,  what  was 
better,  which  experience  told  him  was  desira- 
ble. The  event  had  found  him  ready  and  will- 
ing to  make  room  for  her  beside  him  in  the 
boat,  and,  so,  continue  the  journey  in  her  com- 
pany, well  content.  He  bowed  to  fate  politely, 
with  a  graceful  merci ! 

For  forty-eight  hours  he  watched,  almost  as 
if  he  had  been  a  disinterested  outsider,  this 
pleasant  fancy  moulding  the  details  of  his  fu- 
ture life.  He  reckoned  his  rentes  anew,  assign- 
ing a  due  proportion  to  a  little  hotel  in  the 


204  POIREI 


Monceau  quarter,  to  a  villa  at  Houlgate,  to 
horses,  household  expenses,  his  wife's  allow- 
ance, servants,  entertainment,  a  month  at  Aix, 
another  at  Nice,  a  third  at  Hombourg.  He 
saw  himself  retired,  and  in  the  Chambre.  And 
over  all  hovered,  like  a  luminous  presiding  an- 
gel, the  presence  of  Mademoiselle  Tournadour 
—  Madame  Drouin  ! 

So  Sunday  came,  and,  with  it,  breakfast  at 
Armenonville  with  two  fellow  officers,  and  the 
growing  exhilaration  of  the  approaching  race. 
Eugene  was  in  his  gayest  mood  —  for  was  not 
Vivandiere  not  only  the  winner  of  last  year's 
Steeple  Chase,  but  to-day  in  better  form  than 
she  had  ever  been  ?  But  he  allowed  his  good 
spirits  to  be  touched,  now  and  again,  with  a 
gentle,  pleasurable  melancholy,  as  the  violins 
of  the  tziganes  glided  into  the  long,  languorous 
swell  of  the  Valse  Bleue,  and  his  handsome 
eyes  clouded  thoughtfully,  and  his  fine  mouth 
drooped,  so  that  Gaston  Cavaignac  rallied  him 
joyously  upon  the  new  affair,  which  alone  could 
account  for  such  tristesse.  It  lent  an  added 
zest,  this.  Eugene  smiled,  and  was  glad  that 
in  his  denial  of  the  charge  rang  so  little  of  con- 
viction. 


POIRE!  205 


The  first  race  had  been  already  run,  as  the 
three  officers  slipped  through  the  main  en- 
trance of  Auteuil,  and  made  their  way  across 
the  pesage,  and  past  the  betting  booths,  to  the 
grass  oval  around  which  the  horses,  in  charge 
of  stable  lads,  were  slowly  circling.  It  was 
one  of  May's  clearest  and  most  brilliant  after- 
noons. The  gravel  pathways  and  stretches  of 
vivid  turf  were  thronged  with  the  best  known 
men  and  women  of  the  two  great  Parisian 
worlds  of  sport  and  fashion,  and  the  air  rang 
with  gay  gossip  and  spirited  discussion.  But 
Eugene  had  ears  for  none  of  this,  and  eyes  but 
for  two  things,  —  Vivandiere,  blanketed,  and 
swinging  around  the  oval  with  her  long,  sure 
stride,  and  Natalie  Tournadour,  in  a  delicious 
gown  of  soft  blue,  standing  at  the  side  of  Vieux 
Cesar.  Life,  at  that  moment,  was  good  to  live. 
The  chasseur  drew  a  quick  breath  of  pleased 
surprise.  She  was  there,  then,  to  see  him  win. 
He  might  have  known  ! 

A  mixture  of  sudden,  unfamiliar  embarrass- 
ment and  boyish  vanity  caused  him  to  avoid 
her  eye  as  he  made  a  turn  of  the  oval,  consult- 
ing with  his  stable  lad  about  the  mare's  con- 
dition ;  but  he  held  himself  very  straight,  and 


206  POIRE! 


was  pleasantly  conscious  that  his  tunic  was 
new,  and  his  boots  a  veritable  triumph  of  Co- 
quillot's.  When  he  went  back  to  his  compan- 
ions his  eyes  were  glowing. 

"  Content  ? "  asked  Cavaignac. 

"  Je  te  crois,  mon  vieux !  "  he  answered. 
"  One  never  can  say,  but  it  is  certain  that  no 
one  has  a  better  chance.  She  is  perfection  !  " 

"  There  is  the  white,"  put  in  Lieutenant 
Mors,  dubiously. 

Eugene  vouchsafed  the  rival  racer  a  brief, 
contemptuous  glance.  It  was  a  lean,  powerfully 
built  brute,  with  an  astonishing  reach  to  even 
the  leisurely  stride  with  which  he  paced  the 
oval.  A  trainer  would  have  had  something  to 
say  of  those  lithe  shoulders,  and  that  long  bar- 
rel, dwindling  along  the  flanks,  and  that  easy 
swing  of  haunch  and  swathed  hock.  But  Eu- 
gene was  not  a  trainer. 

"A  fine  animal,"  he  observed,  carelessly, 
"  but  there  is  no  comparison.  One  has  only 
to  look  at  Vivandiere," 

"  Tiens  !  "  cried  Gaston,  "  the  saddling-bell ! 
I  am  off  to  put  five  louis  on  you  gagnant,  and 
five  placd.  Bonne  chance,  vieux  !  " 

In  truth,  the  saddling-bell  was  jangling  from 


POIRE!  207 


the  little  pavilion  to  the  left,  and  the  officers 
hurrying  forward  to  weigh  in.  As  he  passed 
into  the  enclosure,  Eugene  glanced  over  his 
shoulder.  General  Tournadour  and  his  daugh- 
ter were  still  standing  at  the  oval-side,  and  he 
had  a  glimpse  of  Natalie  clapping  her  hands 
and  pointing,  as  the  stable  lad  slipped  the 
blanket  off  Vivandiere.  But  he  made  no  sign, 
even  when,  three  minutes  later,  he  mounted, 
within  five  metres  of  where  they  stood.  Time 
enough,  when  the  victory  was  won,  to  claim  his 
reward  in  the  gray  eyes  of  which  he  had  been 
dreaming.  His  heart  leaped,  nevertheless,  as 
he  gave  Vivandiere  the  rein.  It  was  the  voice 
of  Vieux  Cesar,  almost  at  his  side  :  — 

"  Be  not  afraid,  ma  petite.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  is  going  to  win." 

No  doubt,  indeed,  with  her  eyes  upon  him, 
and  her  heart  praying  for  his  success  ! 

Once  upon  the  course,  he  swept  the  vast  en- 
closure with  a  glance,  and  his  blood  danced 
with  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  the 
brilliancy  of  the  scene.  To  the  right  the  great 
tribunes  of  the  pesage,  and  the  chair-dotted  turf 
in  front,  glowed  with  a  shifting  rainbow  of 
spring  gowns  and  vivid  parasols,  and  sparkled 


208  POIRE! 


with  a  myriad  white  waistcoats,  drifting,  like 
large,  lazy  snowflakes,  to  and  fro  ;  to  the  left 
lay  the  vast  enclosure  of  the  pelouse,  flooded 
with  dazzling  sunlight,  its  thousands  circling 
here  and  there  like  ants.  Beyond,  the  race- 
course swept  away,  smooth  and  green,  to  the 
long  rows  of  trees  in  their  new  foliage,  banked 
along  the  route  de  Boulogne  and  the  allee 
des  Fortifications.  It  was  a  day  of  days,  whe- 
ther one  stood  inside  the  rail,  straining  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  horses,  or  swept  slowly  to  the 
left,  on  the  course  itself,  toward  the  starting 
point,  with  a  thoroughbred's  flanks  quivering 
between  one's  knees  ! 

As  the  horses  circled  about  the  start,  getting 
into  position,  Eugene's  keen,  handsome  eyes 
were  busy  with  trivial  details,  dwindled  by  dis- 
tance to  mere  specks,  —  two  men,  leaning  far 
over  the  rails,  signaling  bets  to  each  other 
across  the  track,  a  gleam  of  orange  from  the 
finish  flag,  the  starter  rocking  toward  him  on  a 
ridiculously  fat  pony.  Then,  in  an  instant, 
every  faculty  came  taut  like  a  stretched  string, 
and  they  were  off,  in  a  thunder  of  hoofs  and  a 
whirl  of  flying  sod.  He  saw  a  red  flag  flutter- 
ing stiffly  in  the  breeze  as  he  swept  past,  and 


POIRE  I  209 


heard,  in  the  distance,  the  whirr  of  the  signal 
gong  from  the  judge's  stand.  It  was  a  fair 
start.  He  touched  Vivandiere  lightly  with  his 
hand,  and,  at  the  signal,  felt  her  lengthen  un- 
der him  into  her  long,  magnificent  gallop.  The 
tribunes  and  the  crowded  pelouse  rushed  down 
upon  him  with  a  murmur  of  many  voices.  The 
long  double  line  of  faces  at  the  rail  slid  past 
like  white  dots,  and  the  dark  green  hedge  of 
the  water-jump  sprang  out  of  the  track  at  his 
feet.  Houp,  ma  belle  !  A  whish  of  brushed 
twigs,  a  gleam  of  silver  water  passing  under, 
a  thud  of  hoofs  on  the  soft  turf  beyond,  and 
they  were  over,  and  away  into  the  southern 
loop  to  the  left ! 

As  he  swung  to  the  north  again,  he  saw  the 
ants  of  the  pelouse  scurrying  across  to  the  rail 
along  the  transverse  cut.  Let  them  run,  les 
droles  !  They  had  need  to  if  they  would  see 
the  passing  of  Vivandiere  !  Past  the  high  hur- 
dle —  so  much  the  better  that  one  did  not  have 
to  take  it !  —  and  down  the  transverse  to  the 
second  water-jump.  It  was  easy,  that.  The 
mare  crossed  it  like  a  bird,  and  Eugene  saw 
the  tribunes  again  from  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
and  laughed  at  the  shrill  "  Bravo  !  "  of  a  little 


210  POIRE! 


grisette  in  a  red  hat,  who  flew  past  him,  leaning 
on  the  rail. 

Vivandiere  was  well  into  the  left  reach  of  the 
northern  loop  before  Eugene  fairly  realized 
what  that  smooth,  empty  width  of  turf  be- 
fore him  meant.  He  was  leading,  —  had  been 
leading  from  the  very  start !  And  somewhere, 
back  there  in  the  gay  throng  of  the  pesage,  two 
gray  eyes  were  watching  him,  straining  to  catch 
each  movement  of  the  blue  tunic,  each  bound 
of  the  gallant  mare.  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  at  the  clear,  wide  sky.  It  was 
very  good  to  be  alive ! 

So,  with  a  broad  sweep  to  the  right,  into  the 
home  stretch,  the  last  curve  of  the  giant  "  8  " 
he  had  described.  It  lay  ahead,  full  and  fair, 
cut  by  one  low  hedge.  And  then  — 

Thud!    Thud!    Thud! 

The  sound  battered  its  way  into  the  chas- 
seur's understanding,  and  hurt  as  if  it  had  been, 
in  verity,  that  of  blow  on  blow.  He  leaned 
forward,  spurring  the  mare  to  her  utmost  en- 
deavor. And  she  responded,  but  still  the  beat 
of  following  hoofs  grew  louder.  For  Vivan- 
diere was  thoroughbred,  and  she  had  kept  her 
maddest  pace  from  the  start.  It  was  reserved 


POIRE!  211 


for  racers  of  ignobler  spirit  to  hold  their  great- 
est effort  for  the  end. 

Thud!    Thud!    Thud! 

Once  more  pesage  and  pelouse  rushed  down 
upon  him,  not  now  with  a  murmur  of  voices, 
but  with  a  mighty  roar,  that  swelled,  deafening, 
into  his  ears. 

"  Flambeau  !  Flambeau  !  C'est  Flambeau 
qui  gagne  ! " 

There  was  a  gasp  of  short-coming  breath  at 
his  elbow,  a  gleam  of  white,  tense  neck,  a  flash 
of  red  breeches  and  of  polished  boots,  and  the 
Steeple  Chase  Militaire  was  run,  with  Vivan- 
diere  second,  and  the  lean,  white  Flambeau 
winner  by  a  length. 

The  officers  rode  back  slowly,  past  the  ap- 
plauding tribunes.  Eugene  saw  dimly  that  it 
was  a  colonel  of  infantry  who  rode  Flambeau, 
a  metre  ahead  of  him,  but  his  thoughts  were 
more  for  Natalie  than  for  himself  or  his  suc- 
cessful competitor.  Poor  little  girl !  She  had 
been  so  anxious  for  his  victory,  and  no  doubt 
so  confident,  after  the  brave  words  of  Vieux 
Cesar.  But,  after  all,  —  second  !  It  was  not 
so  bad  in  a  field  of  twelve.  But  he  had  been 
wrong  not  to  speak  to  her  before  he  mounted. 


212  POIRE! 


Well,  he  would  atone  for  that,  never  fear ! 
Moreover,  when  once  they  were  married,  he 
would  give  herVivandiere  —  the  cause  of  their 
first  meeting  — the  reason  of  their  present  sym- 
pathy !  It  was  a  good  thought. 

Eugene  did  not  find  the  general  and  his 
daughter  readily  in  the  vast  throng  in  the  pe- 
sage.  Three  times  he  made  the  circuit  of  the 
tribunes,  scanning  the  tiers  of  seats,  and  thread- 
ing his  way  through  the  little  wooden  chairs 
upon  the  turf  in  front.  Once  he  passed  Ca- 
vaignac  and  Mors,  walking  arm  in  arm,  who 
swore  at  him  picturesquely  for  his  defeat.  Vi- 
vandiere  had  paid  but  seventeen  francs  fifty 
place',  and  so  they  had  only  seventy-five  to 
show  for  the  five  louis  they  had  placed  upon 
her  gagnant.  The  privilege  of  calling  her  mas- 
ter tete  de  laitue  was  but  trifling  recompense, 
and  they  strolled  on,  surprised  that  one  noted 
for  his  eloquence  in  this  variety  of  obloquy  did 
not  deign  to  reply. 

Finally,  at  the  doors  of  the  little  refreshment 
pavilion,  and  talking  with  a  colonel  of  infantry, 
he  found  the  objects  of  his  quest,  and  went  up 
eagerly,  saluting.  Vieux  Ce'sar  greeted  him 
with  heartiness. 


POIREI  213 


"  Ah,  lieutenant !  Our  preserver  of  Friday 
—  quoi  ?  Natalie,  see  who  is  here  —  our  pre- 
server of  Friday  ! " 

The  girl  was  radiant.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  the  gray  eyes  shone  with  a  bright- 
ness that  set  Eugene's  heart  pounding  so  hard 
that  he  felt  its  throbbing  must  be  dimpling  the 
breast  of  his  tunic. 

"  What  a  magnificent  race  ! "  she  said,  giving 
him  her  hand.  "  You  have  cause  to  be  proud  of 
Vivandiere.  It  is  something  to  have  ridden 
such  a  horse." 

"It  is  always  something  to  ride  a  good 
horse,"  said  Eugene,  looking  into  her  eyes, 
"  and  it  is  something,  also,  to  be  second  in  a 
good  race,  but  it  is  more  to  be  first.  And  I 
had  my  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  that,  made- 
moiselle." 

Natalie  smiled. 

"  Ah,  sans  doute !  "  she  answered.  "  But 
you  must  not  call  me  mademoiselle,  monsieur. 
You  must  know  that  since  yesterday  I  am  a 
serious  married  woman.  And  what  is  more,  my 
husband  rode  Flambeau  !  Am  I  not  a  verita- 
ble mascotte  ? " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  officer 
at  her  side. 


214  POIRE! 


"  My  husband,  Colonel  Montre'sor,"  she 
added.  "  Paul,  this  is  the  officer  of  whom  I 
spoke  to  you  —  who  was  so  kind — Lieuten- 
ant"— 

She  turned  to  Eugene,  blushing  divinely, 
with  an  embarrassed  little  laugh. 

"  Oh,  pray  forgive  me !  "  she  said.  "  I  am 
so  stupid  —  but  —  but  —  I  have  forgotten  your 


Papa  Labesse 

UP   on  the   Butte  Montmartre   life  is  a 
matter  of  first  principles,  and  conven- 
tionality an  undiscovered  affliction.     A 
spade  is  a  spade,  and  the  blacker  it  happens 
to  be,  the  more  apt  it  is  to  receive  its  proper 
appellation,  and  the  less  likely  to  be  confused 
with  the  hearts  and  diamonds.     That  is  why 
Papa  Labesse  had  no  hesitation  in  referring  to 
Bombiste   Fremier  as  a  good-for-nothing,  —  a 
vaurien. 

Just  off  the  boulevard  de  Rochechouart,  in 
the  rue  Veron,  Papa  Labesse  kept  a  tiny  join- 


216  PAPA  LABESSE 

er's  shop,  in  which,  in  his  velvet  cap  with  a 
long  tassel  and  his  ample  apron  of  blue  denim, 
he  might  be  seen  daily,  toiling  upon  various 
small  orders  for  the  quartier.  But  daily,  also, 
when  the  light  began  to  fail,  he  would  discard 
his  apron,  and,  locking  his  shop  door,  walk 
slowly  up  the  long  curving  incline  of  the  rue 
Lepic,  and  through  the  appropriately  rural- 
looking  rue  St.  Rustique,  until  he  emerged 
upon  the  broad  summit  of  the  Butte.  Here  he 
would  light  his  pipe,  and,  with  his  legs  spread 
wide,  stand  motionless  by  the  low  wattled  fence 
at  the  brink  of  the  bluff,  looking  off  across  the 
city.  In  appearance  Papa  Labesse  was  not 
the  type  of  man  in  whom  one  would  be  apt  to 
look  for  sentimentality.  He  was  short  and 
very  thin,  with  a  hooked  nose  and  a  gray  mous- 
tache turned  up  fiercely  at  the  ends,  and  his 
skin  was  brown  and  deeply  wrinkled,  as  if  he 
had  somehow  shrunk  or  warped  ;  but  then,  as 
Marcelle  said  of  him,  it  is  the  rough  and  crin- 
kled Brazil-nut  that  is  as  full  as  possible  of 
sweet  white  meat. 

Between  these  two  there  had  always  existed 
a  firm  bond  of  camaraderie.  Marcelle  was  the 
daughter  of  Madame  Clapot,  who  presided 


PAPA  LABESSE  217 

over  a  little  dairy  directly  opposite  the  joiner's 
shop,  and  on  the  day  when  she  first  made  the 
astounding  discovery  that  small  girls  can  stand 
upright  and  walk  alone,  as  if  by  instinct  she 
had  made  a  bee-line  for  the  doorway  of  Papa 
Labesse,  and,  staggering  in,  triumphant,  had 
fallen  headlong,  with  a  gurgle  of  satisfaction, 
into  a  great  pile  of  shavings.  Thenceforward 
she  came  often  and  tarried  long,  and  Papa  La- 
besse built  houses  for  her  out  of  odds  and 
ends  of  wood,  and  fashioned  miniature  articles 
of  furniture  in  his  spare  moments,  and  had 
always  a  bit  of  sucre-candi  or  a  little  ginger- 
bread figure  tucked  away  in  a  certain  drawer  of 
his  table,  which  she  soon  learned  to  find  for 
herself. 

It  seemed  to  Papa  Labesse  but  the  week  fol- 
lowing her  first  plunge  among  his  shavings 
when  Marcelle  came  in,  all  in  white,  and  with 
a  veil  like  a  little  bride's,  to  parade  her  splen- 
dor under  his  delighted  eyes,  before  going  to 
her  first  communion.  But  when  he  put  into  her 
hand  the  small  white  prayerbook  he  had  bought 
for  this  great  occasion,  she  had  forgotten  all 
else,  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck,  en- 
tirely regardless  of  her  finery. 


218  PAPA    LABESSE 

"  After  maman,  thou  knowest,  Papa  Labesse, 
I  love  thee  best  of  all  the  world  !  " 

And  Papa  Labesse  was  properly  shocked  at 
this  recklessness  and  said,  bon  Dieu  !  that  was 
a  fine  veil,  then,  made  to  be  crushed  against  an 
odious  apron  covered  with  chips  and  sawdust 
—  what?  And,  as  Marcelle  ran  off  to  join 
Madame  Clapot,  who  was  waiting,  consumed 
with  mingled  pride  and  impatience,  across  the 
way,  the  old  man  wiped  his  spectacles  vigor- 
ously, shook  his  head  several  times,  and  then, 
suddenly  abandoning  his  work,  three  hours  be- 
fore the  accustomed  time,  betook  himself  to 
the  Butte,  and  smoked  three  pipefuls  of  to- 
bacco, looking  off  across  the  city. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  two  radical  changes 
came  into  the  life  of  Papa  Labesse.  First,  on 
the  very  summit  of  the  Butte  they  began  to  lay 
the  foundations  for  the  great  church  of  Sacre- 
Cceur ;  and,  second,  Marcelle  took  it  into  her 
pretty  little  head  to  accompany  him  on  his  daily 
climb.  At  first  he  was  disturbed  by  both  these 
innovations.  This  curious  afternoon  commu- 
nion of  his  with  the  wonderful  wide  city,  which 
lay  spread  out  before  him  like  a  great  gray 
map,  was  akin  to  a  religion.  He  loved  Paris 


PAPA  LABESSE  219 

with  a  love  so  great  that  perhaps  he  himself 
was  barely  able  to  comprehend  its  proportions. 
He  was  never  tired  of  standing  there  and 
watching  her  breathing  at  his  feet,  of  picking 
out,  in  the  gathering  twilight,  the  faint  white 
speck  to  the  west  that  was  the  arc  de  PEtoile, 
the  domes  of  the  Invalides  and  the  Pantheon, 
Notre  Dame,  to  the  eastward,  and  the  towers 
and  spires  of  half  a  hundred  minor  temples 
and  public  buildings.  He  passed  from  one  to 
the  other  in  a  kind  of  visual  pilgrimage,  saying 
the  names  over  slowly  to  himself,  and  occa- 
sionally affecting  an  air  of  surprise,  as  if  some 
one  of  the  familiar  piles  had  suddenly  and  un- 
accountably appeared  in  a  new  locality. 

"  La  Trinite' ;  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  ;  La 
Bourse.  Tiens !  St.  Eustache!" 

At  the  outset,  the  serenity  of  this  contempla- 
tive hour  was  seriously  impaired  by  the  creak- 
ing of  derrick-pulleys  and  the  loud  chatter  of 
wagon-drivers,  and  hardly  less  so  by  the  eager 
questions  of  Marcelle,  clinging  to  his  hand, 
her  eyes  bright  with  excitement,  as  she  looked 
out  with  him  across  Paris,  or  peered  down  into 
the  vast  pit  when  the  masons  were  laying  the 
foundations  of  the  big  church.  But,  bit  by  bit, 


220  PAPA   LABESSE 

Papa  Labesse  became  accustomed  to  the  new 
conditions ;  and  every  night,  an  hour  before 
sunset,  his  high,  dry  voice  summoned  Marcelle 
from  the  dairy  across  the  way,  and  the  two  set 
forth  together  up  the  long  curving  incline  of 
the  rue  Lepic,  and  the  old  man  would  smoke 
his  pipe  by  the  low  wattled  fence  at  the  brink 
of  the  bluff,  while  the  child  babbled  of  her  lit- 
tle affairs.  Papa  Labesse  no  longer  named  the 
domes  and  spires  now.  His  eyes  rested  alter- 
nately on  the  city  and  on  the  girl  beside  him, 
and  often,  when  Marcelle  was  silent,  looking 
off  to  where  the  thin,  silver  line  of  the  Seine 
gleamed  briefly  between  distant  buildings,  he 
shook  his  head  several  times,  tapping  the  side 
of  his  inverted  pipe-bowl  against  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  long  after  the  ashes  had  fallen  out. 

When  Marcelle  was  seventeen,  Madame  Cla- 
pot  died  suddenly,  and  the  girl  moved  from  the 
rue  Veron  to  the  home  of  her  aunt,  near  by,  in 
the  rue  Seveste.  But  the  change  made  no  dif- 
ference in  her  friendship  for  Papa  Labesse. 
All  through  the  ensuing  spring  she  called  reg- 
ularly for  him  each  afternoon,  and  they  climbed 
the  Butte  in  company,  as  before.  The  old  man 
would  have  been  completely  happy  had  it  not 
been  for  Bombiste  Fremier. 


PAPA   LABESSE  221 

Bombiste  was  an  employ^  of  the  state,  —  an 
humble  one,  to  be  sure,  but,  nevertheless,  part 
and  parcel  of  the  great  Administration  which 
includes  every  one,  from  the  President  of  the 
Republic  to  the  street-sweeper  on  the  rue 
Royale.  In  Premier's  case  the  employment 
was  brief  and  not  over-lucrative.  He  was  en- 
gaged, for  two  months  only  in  the  twelve,  to 
mow  the  grass  on  the  fortifications  and  in  parts 
of  the  Bois  and  the  smaller  parks  of  Paris. 
For  the  remainder  of  the  year  he  lived  none 
knew  how,  but  he  had  always  a  few  white 
pieces  in  his  pocket,  and  was  ready  to  treat  a 
comrade  at  Le  Cheval  Blanc,  the  little  wine- 
shop kept  by  Bonhomme  Pirou  at  the  corner 
of  the  boulevard  and  the  rue  Seveste.  As  re- 
gards the  source  of  his  income,  it  is  probable 
that  Ame'lie  Chouert,  called  La  Trompette,  by 
reason  of  her  loud  voice,  might  have  divulged 
some  remarkable  particulars.  In  any  event, 
she  was  his  constant  companion,  a  sharp-fea- 
tured, angular  woman  with  snapping  black  eyes 
and  a  great  mop  of  hair  that  came  down  to 
within  an  inch  of  her  continuous  line  of  eye- 
brow. 

Fremier  himself  was  as  handsome  as  a  bru- 


222  PAPA  LABESSE 

tal  picture,  —  a  giant  in  stature,  with  square 
shoulders,  a  thick  neck,  in  which  the  muscles 
stood  out  like  ropes,  and  the  face  of  an  Italian 
brigand.  It  is  a  type  of  masculine  beauty 
which  goes  far  in  Montmartre,  and  to  it  was 
added  a  deep,  melodious  voice,  that,  whether 
in  the  heat  of  political  argument  or  the  more 
complicated  phraseology  of  love,  carried  com- 
plete conviction.  No  one  blamed  La  Trom- 
pette  for  her  infatuation.  As  we  have  said, 
life  on  the  Butte  is  a  matter  of  first  princi- 
ples, and,  in  view  of  the  manifest  attraction,  her 
position  was  entirely  conceivable.  Except  to 
Papa  Labesse. 

He  was  a  singularly  rigid  old  man,  who  took 
no  account  of  the  remarkable  beauty  and  the 
irresistible  tongue  of  Premier,  but  only  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  called  Bombiste  because  he 
talked  against  the  government  at  Le  Cheval 
Blanc,  advocating  the  use  of  dynamite,  and 
only  the  bon  Dieu  knew  what  else  beside. 
And  if,  as  La  Trompette  alleged,  he  swung 
his  scythe  on  the  fortifications  like  a  veritable 
demon,  what  of  that  ?  No,  evidently  he  was  a 
vaurien  ! 

So  it  was,  that  when,  one   fine  May  after- 


PAPA   LABESSE  223 

noon,  Papa  Labesse,  emerging  from  his  little 
shop  at  the  summons  of  Marcelle,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Bombiste  slipping  around  the  fur- 
ther corner  into  the  rue  Lepic,  his  heart  gave 
a  sudden  great  bound  and  then  seemed  to 
stand  still.  He  was  very  silent  on  the  way  to 
the  Butte,  for,  moment  by  moment,  the  black- 
ness of  untoward  premonition  was  settling 
upon  him.  He  glanced,  covertly,  but  again 
and  again,  at  Marcelle,  observing,  with  a 
strange,  suddenly  acquired  power  of  percep- 
tion, that  she  was  already  a  woman.  He  had 
not  seemed  to  notice,  day  by  day,  the  change 
in  her.  Now  it  dawned  upon  him  in  a  flash. 
No,  it  was  no  longer  the  baby  who  had  fallen 
headlong  among  his  shavings,  nor  yet  the  child 
going  to  her  first  communion,  all  in  white  and 
with  a  veil  like  a  little  bride's,  nor  even  the 
slender  girl  who  had  peered  down  with  him 
into  the  vast  pit  where  the  masons  were  laying 
the  foundations  of  the  big  church.  It  was  a 
woman  who  walked  beside  him,  a  woman  very 
beautiful,  with  dark  hair,  coiled  above  a  pale, 
pure  face,  and  great  eyes,  like  crushed  violets 
swimming  in  their  dew.  Papa  Labesse  caught 
his  breath  :  Bombiste  Fremier ! 


224  PAPA   LABESSE 

But  Marcelle  saw  nothing  of  her  compan- 
ion's preoccupation.  She  almost  danced  be- 
side him  up  the  long  curving  incline  of  the  rue 
Lepic,  chaffing,  as  she  passed,  the  children 
playing  in  the  gutters,  and  pausing  continually 
to  sniff  at  some  flower-vender's  fragrant  wares, 
or  peer  into  the  window  of  a  tiny  shop.  She 
was  glowing  with  health  and  happiness  :  her 
cheeks  dappled  with  color,  her  eyes  shining. 
When,  finally,  they  emerged  upon  the  Butte, 
she  ran  to  the  little  wattled  fence,  and  with 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  looked  out 
across  the  city.  Even  when  Papa  Labesse  had 
come  up  to  her  side,  she  said  no  word  for  sev- 
eral minutes. 

They  had  started  later  than  was  usual,  and 
already  the  daylight  had  begun  to  dim,  and  the 
west  to  turn  from  red  to  saffron,  and  from  saf- 
fron to  fawn.  Directly  below  them  lay  a  maze 
of  steep  and  narrow  streets,  shelving  toward 
the  boulevard  de  Rochechouart ;  and  far  fur- 
ther, to  the  southwest,  the  place  de  POpera  was 
breaking  into  the  alternate  deep  red  and  glaring 
white  of  electric  advertising  signs,  the  letter- 
ing of  which  could  not  be  distinguished  from 
where  they  stood,  but  which  painted  the  faint 


PAPA  LABESSE  225 

haze  of  evening  with  swiftly  changing  contrasts 
of  color. 

Suddenly  Marcelle  began  to  speak,  her  voice 
eloquent  with  a  strange,  new  music. 

"  Papa  Labesse,  dost  thou  comprehend  what 
all  this  says  to  us,  this  wonderful  city  upon 
which  we  look  each  night,  thou  and  I  ?  From 
here  —  what  ?  A  bewilderment  of  lights,  a  sea 
of  roofs,  a  murmur  of  faintly  heard  cries.  But 
what  does  it  mean?  Surely,  it  is  the  voice 
of  the  mother  of  us  all,  of  Paris,  the  great, 
the  beautiful  —  of  a  woman,  Papa  Labesse  : 
that  finally,  which  thou  canst  never  compre- 
hend, pauvre  Papa  Labesse  !  —  a  woman  who 
says  but  one  word  —  love  !  Papa  Labesse  — 
L'amour,  1'amour,  1'amour  !  —  again,  and  again, 
and  again,  1'amour  !  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then,  almost 
timidly,  Papa  Labesse  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"  But  thou  dost  not  love,  my  little  one,  — 
thou  ?  "  he  said. 

Marcelle  turned  suddenly. 

"Si,  I  love !  "  she  answered. 

Above  the  tapering,  distant  shaft  of  the 
Tour  Eiffel  a  tiny  cloud  caught  the  last  ray  of 
the  departed  sun,  blazed  crimson  for  an  in- 


226  PAPA  LABESSE 

stant,  and  then,  as  suddenly,  gloomed  to  slate- 
gray. 

"  Que  Dieu  te  benisse  !  "  said  Papa  Labesse, 
solemnly. 

"  It  is  all  so  wonderful,"  continued  Marcelle 
after  a  moment,  "  and  yet  I  have  never  seemed 
to  understand  it  till  to-day,  —  this  great,  sweet 
voice  of  Paris.  It  is  indeed  as  if  she  was  the 
mother  of  us  all,  Papa  Labesse,  and  was 
spreading  out  her  arms,  and  calling  us  all  to 
come  to  her  heart.  And  for  each  of  us  she 
has  something  good  —  something  better  than 
ever  we  have  imagined  for  ourselves,  or  wished 
to  have ;  and  yet,  in  whatever  form,  it  is  really 
the  same  thing  always  —  1'amour,  Papa  La- 
besse, 1'amour ! " 

Out  of  the  strain  of  the  past  half  hour  a 
great  sob  was  suddenly  wrung  from  Papa  La- 
besse. He  took  the  girl's  radiant  face  between 
his  knotted  hands  and  looked  long  into  her 
eyes  without  speaking. 

"  Tell  me,  my  pigeon,"  he  said,  finally,  "  is 
it  —  is  it  the  young  Fremier  ?  " 

Marcelle  flung  both  arms  about  his  neck,  as 
she  had  done  on  the  day  when  he  had  given  her 
the  little  white  prayerbook.  He  felt  her  lips, 


PAPA  LABESSE  227 

warm  and  moist,  against  his  wrinkled  ear,  and 
when  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  like  the  sound 
of  two  leaves  grazing  each  other  at  the  touch 
of  a  light  breeze. 

"  Oui !  "  she  said. 

When  Marcelle  went  away  with  Bombiste 
Fremier,  all  the  quartier  babbled.  Fat  fish- 
wives and  dairywomen  stopped  at  each  others' 
doors,  and  said,  wisely,  with  their  heads  to- 
gether and  hands  on  hips,  that  they  had  always 
known  how  it  would  be.  Since  the  first,  what- 
ever Bombiste  wanted,  that  Bombiste  was  sure 
to  have  —  what  ?  Did  not  Madame  Rollin  re- 
member how,  when  a  mere  baby,  he  had  cried 
for  the  little  brass  dish  which  hung  in  front  of 
his  father's  salle  de  coiffure,  until,  actually, 
Fremier  pere  had  taken  it  down  and  given  it 
to  him  to  cut  his  first  tooth  on  ?  Assuredly, 
Madame  Rollin  recalled  this  astounding  inci- 
dent, and  not  only  that,  but  the  fact  that  she 
herself  had  spoken  to  Madame  Fremier,  warn- 
ing her  that  the  result  of  such  folly  would  be 
the  unhappiness  of  some  one.  But  they  were 
all  alike,  the  Fremier.  They  made  no  excuses 
and  took  no  advice. 

There  were   others  who  recalled  the   days 


228  PAPA    LABESSE 

when  La  Trompette  was  the  belle  of  the  quar- 
tier,  and  as  respectable  as  the  best  of  them. 
But  there,  what  wouldst  thou  ?  Bombiste  had 
wanted  her,  so  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
And  the  debate  invariably  ended  with  a  bit  of 
flattery  for  Bombiste.  It  was  a  beau  gargon, 
after  all,  name  of  a  good  name,  with  such  eyes  ! 
And  a  tongue,  bon  Dieu,  to  draw  the  cork  from 
a  bottle  !  For  there  are  many  mysteries  of 
human  society,  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  the 
good  word  of  the  other  women  for  the  man. 

Curiously  enough,  Bombiste's  most  eloquent 
partisan  was  La  Trompette  herself.  Her  first 
appearance  at  Le  Cheval  Blanc,  after  Fremier's 
desertion  of  her,  was  the  signal  for  the  out- 
burst of  ironic  condolence. 

"  Eh  !  La  Trompette,  he  has  planted  thee 
—  yes  ?  So  the  cord  is  cut,  little  one  —  hein  ? 
Did  he  give  thee  a  reference,  at  least  ? " 

To  these,  and  many  similar  compliments, 
La  Trompette  returned  nothing  beyond  a  tole- 
rant smile,  or  — 

"  One  shall  see,  my  children  ! "  she  cried, 
in  her  shrill  voice.  "  It  is  not  the  first  time, 
you  know.  Variety,  one  has  need  of  that  in 
life.  Perhaps  we  do  not  know  each  other,  that 


PAPA   LABESSE  229 

story  and  I !  Wait  a  little.  In  six  weeks  we 
shall  be  here  in  company  as  before,  and  the 
little  one  it  will  be  who  is  planted.  But  I  re- 
main. And  she  who  laughs  last  —  what  ?  But, 
above  all,  not  a  word  against  Bombiste,  unless 
you  have  need  of  the  wherewithal  to  make 
broken  heads.  It  is  a  brave  gars,  do  you  un- 
derstand, and  one  who  has  often  enough  paid 
your  drinks,  types  of  good-for-nothings  !  " 

And  she  planted  herself  at  a  table  amidst  a 
burst  of  laughter  and  applause  (for  loyalty  is 
greatly  esteemed  on  the  boulevard  Rochechou- 
art),  and  proceeded  to  collect  interest,  in  the 
form  of  repeated  glasses  of  cognac,  on  the 
past  generosities  of  Bombiste  Fremier. 

But  the  eternal  feminine  had  its  part  in  the 
make-up  of  La  Trompette,  and  so  it  was  that 
one  evening,  just  at  nightfall,  she  presented 
herself  at  the  door  of  Papa  Labesse's  little 
shop.  He  was  always  at  home  now,  poor  Papa 
Labesse,  for  the  growing  church  of  Sacre'-Cceur 
had  never  once  seen  him  emerging,  breathless 
but  smiling,  from  the  little  rue  St.  Rustique, 
since  the  day  when  Marcelle  disappeared.  He 
stopped  his  simple  toil  at  the  same  hour  still, 
but,  instead  of  stepping  out  briskly  upon  the 


230  PAPA  LABESSE 

long,  curving  incline  of  the  rue  Lepic,  he  would 
seat  himself  in  his  doorway,  and,  oftentimes 
forgetting  to  light  the  pipe  which  he  had  filled, 
stare  out  wistfully  across  the  street,  to  where  a 
trim  little  laundress  stood,  busily  ironing  shirts, 
in  the  window  of  the  shop  that  had  formerly 
been  the  dairy  of  Madame  Clapot. 

He  looked  up  as  La  Trompette  drew  up  be- 
fore his  door,  and  a  slight  frown  wrinkled  for 
an  instant  above  his  patient  blue  eyes,  from 
which  all  the  singular  intensity  seemed  gone. 

"  Thou  hast  a  strange  air  of  solitude,  Papa 
Labesse,"  began  La  Trompette,  affecting  a  tone 
of  solicitude. 

Papa  Labesse  made  no  reply. 

"  And  Marcelle,"  said  the  woman,  —  "  she  is 
always  with  Bombiste  ?  Poor  little  one  !  The 
end  is  so  sure  !  Is  there  one  who  "knows  him 
better  than  I  ?  Ah,  non  !  It  is  always  the 
same  story,  —  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  a  good 
figure,  and  v'la !  But,  without  fail,  he  comes 
back  to  me,  ce  sacre  coureur  !  " 

She  glanced  up  and  down  the  street  with  an 
air  of  complete  unconcern,  and  then  her  eyes 
came  back  to  Papa  Labesse  with  a  vindictive 
snap. 


PAPA  LABESSE  231 

"  Happily,"  she  added,  "  he  will  have  taught 
her  a  way  of  earning  white  pieces  in  abun- 
dance. She  is  not  the  first,  thy  Marcelle. 
They  are  sprinkled  from  here  to  La  Villette, 
the  gonzesses  who  know  the  name  of  Bombiste 
Fremier.  Wouldst  thou  prove  it  ?  Walk,  then, 
from  the  place  Pigalle  to  the  place  de  la  Ro- 
tonde  to-night  at  twelve  !  "  And  La  Trompette 
laughed. 

Papa  Labesse  rose  suddenly  to  his  full 
height. 

"  God  damn  you  !  "  he  said.  And  this  was 
no  oath,  but  rather  a  prayer. 

Toward  the  end  of  July  Papa  Labesse  re- 
sumed his  pilgrimages  to  the  summit  of  the 
Butte.  He  had  aged  visibly  in  six  weeks,  and 
he  walked  no  longer  with  the  brisk  and  cheer- 
ful step  which  had  bespoken  his  youthfulness 
of  spirit,  but  shuffled  his  feet,  and  often  stum- 
bled over  trifling  obstacles.  He  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  if  he  heard  the 
greetings  of  those  along  his  way,  for  whom 
formerly  he  had  always  had  a  hearty  word,  he 
made  no  reply.  It  is  doubtful  whether,  had  he 
been  suddenly  asked,  he  could  have  told  his 
exact  whereabouts  :  it  was  rather  instinct  than 


232  PAPA  LABESSE 

absolute  intention  which  sent  him  shuffling  up 
to  his  old  coign  of  vantage.  His  eyes  took  no 
note  of  his  immediate  surroundings,  but  looked 
far  beyond,  with  an  expression  that  was  half 
question,  half  entreaty.  It  was  only  when  he 
had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff  that  he 
seemed  to  awaken  into  something  resembling 
the  man  he  had  been.  Then,  his  lean,  gnarled 
hands  gripped  the  wattles  with  a  kind  of  con- 
vulsive eagerness,  and,  for  a  little,  the  old  blue 
spark  gleamed  under  his  lids,  and  his  eyes 
swept  the  great  city  feverishly,  as  if  they  would 
pluck  out  her  secret  from  her  by  mere  force  of 
will.  He  no  longer  dwelt  upon  the  churches 
and  the  public  buildings,  but  traced  with  his 
glance  the  line  of  the  great  boulevards,  des 
Batignolles,  de  Clichy,  and  de  Rochechouart, 
and  their  tributary  streets;  and  often  he  re- 
mained at  his  post  until  nearly  midnight,  mo- 
tionless, silent,  watching,  watching,  watching, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distant  red  glare 
from  the  giant  revolving  wings  of  the  brilliantly 
lighted  Moulin  Rouge. 

What  he  saw,  what  he  heard,  during  those 
long  hours  of  vigil  no  one  ever  knew :  what 
he  thought  he  barely  knew  himself.  The  en- 


PAPA   LABESSE  233 

tire  intensity  of  his  failing  strength  was  con- 
centrated upon  one  endeavor.  Hour  after 
hour  he  sent  a  voice  without  sound  out,  over, 
and  down  into  the  labyrinth  of  streets  beneath 
him,  into  the  dance-halls,  the  wine-shops,  the 
cafe-concerts,  wooing,  pleading,  beseeching. 
It  was  as  if,  minute  by  minute,  he  wove  a  great 
net  of  tenderest  entreaty  and  persuasion,  fit- 
ting it  cunningly  into  each  nook  and  cranny  of 
the  city  below,  and  then,  at  the  end,  with  one 
mighty  effort  of  his  will,  drew  the  whole  fabric 
up  and  into  his  heart,  hoping  against  hope  that, 
mysteriously,  some  one  pleading  thought  of  his 
might  have  caught  her  and  swept  her  back  to 
his  arms.  It  was  a  struggle,  silent  but  to  the 
death,  between  Papa  Labesse  and  the  great 
siren  city,  for  the  possession  of  a  soul. 

And,  as  if,  indeed,  that  eager  voice  without 
words  of  his  entreaty  had,  somehow,  been  able 
to  reach  and  win  her,  Marcelle  came  back.  It 
was  at  the  hour  just  following  sunset,  the  hour 
they  had  loved  to  pass  together,  and  superbly 
still  and  clear.  To  the  west,  over  the  wide, 
green  sweep  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  a  great 
multitude  of  little  puffs  of  cloud  lay  piled  up 
against  a  turquoise  sky,  and  these  were  con- 


234  PAPA   LABESSE 

stantly  changing  from  tint  to  opalescent  tint,  as 
shafts  of  crimson  and  saffron  sunlight  moved 
among  them  from  below  the  horizon.  Above, 
where  the  turquoise  dulled  to  steel,  the  stars 
were  already  nicking  the  sky,  one  by  one; 
and,  one  by  one,  the  lights  of  the  boulevard, 
red,  white,  and  yellow,  flashed  into  being  in 
reply. 

As  it  was  the  dinner  hour,  the  summit  of  the 
Butte  was  deserted  save  for  the  figure  of  Papa 
Labesse,  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  as  Mar- 
celle  emerged  from  the  rue  St.  Rustique,  came 
slowly  across  the  open  space  before  the  church, 
and  stood  at  his  side.  She  was  very  pale,  with 
the  transparent,  leaden  pallor  which  comes  only 
at  the  end,  and  her  face  seemed  little  more  than 
two  great,  stunned  eyes.  Her  clothes,  in  the 
last  stage  of  what  had  been  tawdry  finery,  were 
unspeakably  more  slovenly  than  mere  rags.  It 
was  but  eight  weeks  since  they  had  stood  on 
the  same  spot  together,  but  this  so  brief  period 
had  wrought  in  each  the  havoc  of  a  decade. 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  Papa  Labesse 
had  looked  up  briefly  as  she  reached  his  side, 
and  then,  as  she  swayed  and  seemed  about  to 
fall,  had  put  an  arm  about  her  and  drawn  her 


PAPA  LABESSE  235 

close  to  him.  So  they  stood  watching,  while 
Paris  winked  and  sparkled  into  the  starry  splen- 
dor of  her  summer  night.  Finally,  — 

"  I  knew  thou  wouldst  come,  my  pigeon," 
said  Papa  Labesse.  "  For  a  time  I  was  deso- 
late, is  it  not  so  ?  —  and  sat  alone  in  the  shop 
below  there,  and  thought  of  nothing.  But  then 
I  remembered  how  that  thou  didst  love  this 
place,  and  so  I  have  come  each  night  to  wait 
for  thee,  because  I  knew  thou  wouldst  return. 
And  now  thou  art  here.  It  is  well,  my  little 
white  pigeon,  it  is  very  well." 

A  keener  ear  than  his  would  have  caught 
the  unmistakable  warning  that  underlay  her 
voice  when  she  replied.  It  lacked  not  only 
hope,  but  life  itself.  It  was  the  voice  of  one 
long  dead. 

"  I  did  not  think  to  find  thee  here,  Papa  La- 
besse—  it  has  been  so  long  since  then.  I 
came  to  see  it  all  once  again  —  to  hear  the 
voice  of  the  great  city  that  sings  of  love.  And 
then,  when  at  last  comes  the  night,  I  would 
throw  myself  down  from  here,  even  into  the 
very  heart  of  her,  for  I  am  hers,  and  she  has 
made  me  like  herself." 

She  seemed  to  feel  the   unvoiced  question 


236  PAPA   LABESSE 

which  quivered  on  the  lips  of  Papa  Labesse, 
and  continued,  presently,  — 

"  He  never  married  me.  Not  that  I  cared 
for  that.  I  loved  him,  thou  seest,  and  when 
one  loves  one  thinks  not  of  little  things.  No, 
I  was  happy  so.  But  now  —  last  week  he  left 
me.  He  has  gone  back  to  La  Trompette.  He 
gave  me  a  hundred  sous.  I  think  he  was  sorry 
to  go." 

A  faint  smile  touched  the  corners  of  her 
lips. 

"  Pauvre  Bombiste  !  "  she  added.  « It  is 
one  who  does  not  know  his  own  heart !  " 

And  this  again  is  unknowable  mystery,  — 
the  gentle  word  of  the  woman  for  the  man  ! 

"He  is  mowing  on  the  fortifs  this  week," 
went  on  Marcelle,  wistfully  echoing  her  lover's 
slang,  "  and  La  Trompette  is  with  him.  I  saw 
them  but  to-day,  from  the  porte  de  Clichy.  So, 
since  they  are  together,  for  me  it  is  finished. 
I  have  come  back  to  the  Butte,  Papa  Labesse 
—  come  back  to  die.  For  now  there  is  none  to 
receive  me,  save  Paris.  She  will  take  me,  thou 
knowest,  she  who.  has  made  me  like  herself." 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  word,  now  at 
the  end,  of  Bombiste  Fremier,  except  that  he 


PAPA  LABESSE  237 

did  not  know  his  own  heart,  —  no  word  of  the 
days  without  food,  the  long  nights  of  following 
him  from  wineshop  to  wineshop,  perhaps  to  be 
refused  at  last  the  wretched  shelter  of  his  little 
room  ;  no  word  of  curses,  blows,  and  insults 
worse  than  either. 

When  she  was  silent  again  Papa  Labesse 
drew  her  gently  away  from  the  brink  of  the 
bluff. 

"  My  pigeon,"  he  said,  "  there  is  one  to  re- 
ceive thee.  Thou  wilt  come  to  the  little  shop 
—  pas  ?  —  and  rest  there  upon  my  bed.  For  I 
have  no  need  of  sleep,  I.  And  in  the  morning 
thou  wilt  be  strong  again,  and  well.  Come, 
my  pigeon  !  " 

And  silently,  hand  in  hand,  they  retraced  the 
familiar  way,  down  the  long,  curving  incline  of 
the  rue  Lepic,  and  the  door  of  the  little  join- 
er's shop  closed  behind  them. 

Marcelle  died  at  daybreak,  going  out  softly 
like  a  lamp  that  dims  and  dims,  and  then  flares 
once  into  brilliance  before  all  is  dark.  Papa 
Labesse  was  on  his  knees  beside  the  narrow 
bed,  when  she  woke  from  the  stupor  into  which 
she  had  fallen,  and  raised  herself  upright,  her 
face  shining  with  a  great  light.  The  old  man, 


238  PAPA  LABESSE 

himself  unconscious  that  the  end  had  come, 
lifted  his  eyes  eagerly  to  hers. 

"  My  little  white  pigeon,"  he  said  tremu- 
lously, "  thou  findest  thyself  better,  is  it  not 
so?" 

But  the  knowledge  of  him  had  passed  utterly 
from  Marcelle.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent, 
looking  at  the  wall  of  the  tiny  room,  as  she 
had  looked  in  the  old  days  at  the  great  city, 
spread  like  a  map  at  the  foot  of  the  Butte 
Montmartre.  Then  she  sank  back  upon  the 
pillow  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast. 

"  Paris  ! "  she  said.  "  Paris,  toi  qui  chantes 
de  I'amour !  " 

And  then,  very  faintly,  "  Bombi !  " 

It  was  her  pet  name  for  Fremier,  but  Papa 
Labesse  did  not  understand. 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  came  out  into  the 
growing  light  of  the  dawn,  and  looked  vacantly 
up  and  down  the  short  stretch  of  the  rue  Veron 
as  if  uncertain  what  direction  he  desired  to 
take.  It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock,  but  already 
the  quartier  was  astir.  As  Papa  Labesse  hesi- 
tated in  the  doorway,  a  band  of  laborers  passed 
the  corner,  laughing,  on  their  way  to  their  work 
in  the  Rochechouart  section  of  the  Metropoli- 


PAPA  LABESSE  239 

tain.  The  little  assistant  was  taking  down  the 
shutters  of  the  laundry  across  the  way,  and  on 
every  side  was  the  sound  of  opening  doors  and 
windows,  and  voices  suddenly  raised  in  greet- 
ing or  comment  upon  the  weather.  Madame 
Rollin  lumbered  by,  carrying  a  bundle  of 
clothes  on  her  way  to  the  public  lavoir. 

"  He  !  bonjour,  Papa  Labesse  !  "  she  cried 
in  passing.  "  A  fine  morning  —  what  ? " 

Papa  Labesse  turned  suddenly,  clamped  the 
padlock  on  his  door,  and  was  presently  shuf- 
fling along  the  avenue  de  Clichy.  As  he  went, 
the  city  awoke  around  him  to  full  activity,  but 
he  noted  his  surroundings  even  less  than  he  had 
been  wont  to  do  of  late,  on  his  climbs  to  the 
Butte.  The  return  of  Marcelle  had  quickened 
him,  but  for  a  moment  only.  Now  he  was 
again,  as  it  were,  a  mere  automaton,  going  for- 
ward without  volition,  or  purpose,  or  percep- 
tion, on,  on,  on,  whither  and  why  he  knew  not. 

After  a  time  he  was  conscious  of  a  great 
weariness.  The  noisy  clamor  of  the  crowds  on 
the  avenue,  marketing  and  bargaining  in  the 
new  sunlight,  seemed  unaccountably  to  have 
given  place  to  quiet;  and  looking  about  him, 
Papa  Labesse  learned  from  a  little  signboard 


240  PAPA   LABESSE 

that  he  was  passing  through  the  porte  de  Cli- 
chy.  The  octroi  officials  looked  curiously  at 
the  shuffling,  stooping  figure  as  he  went  by, 
and  one  of  them  laughed. 

"  As  full  as  an  egg,  the  grandfather ! "  he 
said. 

Turning  to  the  left,  Papa  Labesse  toiled  up 
upon  the  slope  of  the  fortifications,  stumbled 
on  for  a  little,  and,  finally,  as  his  exhaustion 
gained  upon  him,  flung  himself,  face  down, 
upon  the  grass.  He  had  passed  the  need  of 
sleep  long  since,  but  he  lay  quite  motionless 
for  a  long  time,  with  his  chin  on  his  hands. 
Directly  before  him,  seen  more  clearly  from 
the  elevation  upon  which  he  lay,  was  the  dingy 
suburb  of  Clichy,  and,  to  the  left,  its  still  din- 
gier neighbor,  Levallois-Perret,  studded,  both 
of  them,  with  gaunt  sheds  of  blackened  wood, 
and  ghastly  factories  and  storehouses  of  cheap 
brick,  their  endless  windows,  in  close-set  rows, 
giving  them  the  appearance  of  rusted  waffle- 
irons,  and  their  tall  chimneys  slabbering  slow 
coils  of  smoke.  In  the  immediate  foreground, 
a  man  with  a  scythe  was  lazily  cutting  the  long 
grass  on  the  outward  slope  of  the  fortifica- 
tions. 


PAPA   LABESSE  241 

Presently  Papa  Labesse  began  to  talk  to 
himself.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  as  he 
spoke  they  jumped  nimbly  from  shed  to  shed, 
from  factory  to  factory,  of  the  dispiriting  scene 
befpre  him. 

"  But  what  are  those  ?  "  he  began,  scowling 
at  two  high  chimneys  standing  side  by  side. 
11  Tiens  !  Sainte  Clotilde  !  But  the  evening  is 
clear  then,  par  exemple,  that  one  sees  so  far 
and  so  well.  It  is  all  so  wonderful  —  but  I 
have  never  understood  it  till  now.  Ah  !  Saint 
Etienne  -  du  -  Mont !  That  I  know,  since  the 
dome  of  the  Pantheon  is  quite  near.  Sapristi ! 
What  is  that  ?  L'amour,  Papa  Labesse,  1'amour, 

—  that  which,  finally,  thou  canst  never  under- 
stand,  poor   Papa    Labesse !     Tiens !     Notre 
Dame  !    Ah,  c,a !    A  woman  like  herself,  what  ? 

—  like  Paris  that  sings  of  love  !    My  pigeon  !  " 
So,  for  an  hour,  the  thin  stream  of  jumbled 

phrases  slipped  from  his  dry  lips.  He  talked 
softly,  —  no  one  could  have  heard  him  at  two 
paces,  —  but  the  babble  never  ceased. 

At  seven  o'clock  a  woman  carrying  a  basket 
appeared  upon  the  fortifications  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  gate,  and,  pausing  at  the  top  of  the 
slope,  looked  down  upon  the  mower. 


242  PAPA   LABESSE 

"He'!  A116  — labago!  Bom-biste !"  she 
cried.  The  man  turned.  There  was  no  such 
thing  as  not  being  able  to  hear  La  Trompette. 

And  suddenly  Papa  Labesse  held  his  peace. 

Bombiste  came  up  the  slope  with  a  long  lei- 
surely stride,  flung  his  scythe  upon  the  grass, 
and  placing  his  arm  around  La  Trompette's 
neck,  kissed  her  loudly  on  both  cheeks. 

"  Name  of  God  !  "  he  said.  "  But  I  have 
thirst ! " 

They  seated  themselves  side  by  side  and 
close  together,  with  their  backs  to  Papa  La- 
besse, some  fifty  metres  distant,  and  La  Trom- 
pette opened  her  basket.  Presently  Bombiste 
lowered  his  left  elbow  and  raised  his  right  in 
the  act  of  drawing  a  cork,  and  then  raised  his 
left  again  and  took  a  long  draught  from  the 
bottle.  At  the  same  moment  Papa  Labesse 
swung  round  a  quarter  circle  to  the  right,  as  if 
upon  a  pivot,  and  began  to  crawl  very  slowly 
forward. 

"  Chouette  ! "  said  Bombiste  to  La  Trom- 
pette, biting  a  great  mouthful  from  a  slice  of 
rye  bread  and  cheese,  "  c'est  du  suisse !  " 

"  Thou  deservest  water  and  a  raw  turnip  !  " 
replied  the  woman,  assuming  a  tone  of  angry 


PAPA  LABESSE  243 

reproach.  "  If  it  were  not  I,  thou  knowest, 
long  since  thou  wouldst  have  been  put  ashore, 
heart  of  an  artichoke  —  va  !  " 

"  I  am  like  that,"  observed  Bombiste,  with 
regret.  "  But  what  wouldst  thou,  name  of  God  ! 
They  come,  they  go :  but  at  the  end  it  is  al- 
ways thou." 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  and  Papa  La- 
besse,  two  metres  away,  laid  his  gnarled  brown 
fingers  on  the  handle  of  Bombiste's  discarded 
scythe. 

Bombiste  capped  his  philosophy  with  a  sec- 
ond long  draught  of  wine,  and  then,  taking  a 
stupendous  bite  of  bread  and  cheese,  glanced 
slyly  at  his  companion  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.  She  was  gazing  straight  before  her, 
her  teeth  nicking  the  edge  of  her  lower  lip. 

"  What  hast  thou  ? "  mumbled  the  man,  with 
his  mouth  full. 

"  She  was  very  pretty,"  answered  La  Trom- 
pette,  "  and  she  loved  thee,  that  garce.  But 
thou  art  going  to  tell  me  that  it  is  finished 
forever! — That  never,  never,"  she  went  on, 
clenching  her  hands,  "  wilt  thou  see  her  again  ! 
Else  I  plant  thee,  and  thou  canst  earn  thine 
own  white  pieces,  —  mackerel !  " 


244  PAPA   LABESSE 

Bombiste  leaned  over  and  placed  his  face 
beside  hers. 

"  Is  it  not  enough  ?  "  he  said  in  his  softest 
voice.  "Voyons  bien!  What  is  she  to  me, 
this  Marcelle  ?  Fichtre  !  I  planted  her  last 
week,  thou  knowest.  B'en,  quoi  ?  Thou  know- 
est  the  blue  gown  ?  It  is  that  which  sweeps 
the  BouP  Roch'  at  present !  But  that  is  not 
for  long.  Perhaps  the  Morgue  —  more  likely 
St.  Lazare.  Art  thou  not  content  ?  "  And  he 
pressed  his  cheek  to  the  woman's  and  moved 
his  head  up  and  down  slowly,  caressing  her. 

Papa  Labesse  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and 
stretched  his  lean  arms  to  their  full  length. 
The  sun  winked  for  the  fraction  of  a  second 
on  the  downward  swirling  scythe,  and  then  all 
was  still,  save  for  the  dull  thud,  thudding  of 
two  round  objects  rolling  down  the  uneven 
slope  of  sod.  In  a  moment  even  this  sound 
ceased. 

Papa  Labesse  revolved  slowly  upon  his  heels, 
pausing  as  his  blue  eyes,  wide  and  vacant,  fell 
upon  the  distant  walls  of  Sacre-Cceur,  swim- 
ming, cream-white  and  high  in  air,  between 
him  and  the  sun.  Then  he  pitched  softly  for- 
ward upon  the  grass. 


In  the  Absence 
of  Monsieur 


MONSIEUR  ARMAND  MICHEL  — 
seated  before  his  newly  installed  Ti- 
tian —  was  in  the  act  of  saying  to 
himself  that  if  its  acquisition  could  not,  with 
entire  accuracy,  be  viewed  as  an  unqualified 
bargain,  it  had  been,  at  least,  an  indisputable 
stroke  of  diplomacy,  when  his  complacent 
meditation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Arsene.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Monsieur 
Michel  had  seen  his  new  servant  in  his  official 
capacity,  and  he  was  not  ill-pleased.  Arsene 
was  in  flawless  evening  dress,  in  marked  con- 


246    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

trast  to  the  objectionably  flamboyant  costume 
in  which,  on  the  preceding  evening,  he  had 
made  application  for  the  position  of  valet- 
maitre  d'hotel,  left  vacant  by  the  fall  from 
grace  of  Monsieur  Michel's  former  factotum. 
That  costume  had  come  near  to  being  his  un- 
doing. The  fastidious  Armand  had  regarded 
with  an  offended  eye  the  brilliant  green  cravat, 
the  unspeakable  checked  suit,  and  the  pain- 
fully pointed  chrome-yellow  shoes  in  which  the 
applicant  for  his  approval  was  arrayed,  and 
more  than  once,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
was  on  the  point  of  putting  a  peremptory  end 
to  the  negotiations  by  a  crushing  comment  on 
would-be  servants  who  dressed  like  cafe  chan- 
tant  comedians.  But  the  reference  had  out- 
weighed the  costume.  Monsieur  Michel  did 
not  remember  ever  to  have  read  more  unquali- 
fied commendation.  Arsene  Sigard  had  been 
for  two  years  in  the  service  of  the  Comte  de 
Chambour,  whose  square  pink  marble  hotel  on 
the  avenue  de  Malakoff  is  accounted,  in  this 
degenerate  age,  one  of  the  sights  of  Paris  ; 
and  this  of  itself,  was  more  than  a  little.  The 
Comte  did  not  keep  his  eyes  in  his  pockets, 
by  any  manner  of  means,  when  it  came  to  the 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    24? 

affairs  of  his  household,  and  apparently  there 
was  nothing  too  good  for  him  to  say  about 
Arsene.  Here,  on  pale  blue  note-paper,  and 
surmounted  by  the  de  Chambour  crest,  it  was 
set  forth  that  the  bearer  was  sober,  honest, 
clean,  willing,  capable,  quiet,  intelligent,  and 
respectful.  And  discreet.  When  the  Comte 
de  Chambour  gave  his  testimony  on  this  last 
point  it  meant  that  you  were  getting  the  opin- 
ion of  an  expert.  Monsieur  Michel  refolded 
the  reference,  tapped  it  three  times  upon  the 
palm  of  his  left  hand,  and  engaged  the  bearer 
without  further  ado. 

Now,  as  Arsene  went  quietly  about  the  sa- 
lon, drawing  the  curtains  and  clearing  away 
the  card  table,  which  remained  as  mute  witness 
to  Monsieur  Michel's  ruling  passion,  he  was 
the  beau  iddal  of  a  gentleman's  manservant, — 
unobtrusive  in  manner  and  movement,  clean- 
shaven and  clear-eyed,  adapting  himself  with- 
out need  of  instruction  to  the  details  of  his 
new  surroundings.  A  less  complacent  person 
than  Armand  might  have  been  aware  that, 
while  he  was  taking  stock  of  Arsene,  Arsene 
was  taking  stock,  with  equal  particularity,  of 
him.  And  there  was  an  unpleasant  slyness 


248    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

in  his  black  eyes,  a  something  akin  to  alertness 
in  his  thin  nostrils,  which  moved  like  those 
of  a  rabbit,  and  seemed  to  accomplish  more 
than  their  normal  share  of  conveying  to  their 
owner's  intelligence  an  impression  of  exterior 
things.  Also,  had  Monsieur  Michel  bu.t  ob- 
served it,  his  new  servant  walked  just  a  trifle 
too  softly,  and  his  hands  were  just  a  trifle  too 
white  and  slender.  Moreover,  he  had  a  habit 
of  smiling  to  himself  when  his  back  was  turned, 
which  is  an  undesirable  thing  in  anybody,  and 
approaches  the  ominous  in  a  valet-maitre  d'ho- 
tel.  But  Monsieur  Michel  was  far  too  much 
of  an  aristocrat  to  have  any  doubt  of  his  power 
to  overawe  and  impress  his  inferiors,  or  to 
see  in  the  newcomer's  excessive  inconspicuity 
anything  more  than  a  commendable  recogni- 
tion of  monsieur's  commanding  presence.  So, 
when  Arsene  completed  his  work  and  had  shut 
the  door  noiselessly  behind  him,  his  master 
rubbed  his  hands  and  said  "  Ter-res  bien  ! " 
in  a  low  voice,  this  being  his  superlative  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction.  Had  his  glance  been 
able  to  penetrate  his  salon  door,  it  would  have 
met,  in  the  antichambre,  with  the  astounding 
spectacle  of  his  new  servant  in  the  act  of  toss- 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    249 

ing  monsieur's  silk  hat  into  the  air,  and  catch- 
ing it,  with  extreme  dexterity,  on  the  bridge  of 
his  nose.  Unfortunately,  the  other  side  of  the 
door  is  something  which,  like  the  future  and 
the  bank-accounts  of  our  debtors,  it  is  not 
given  us  to  see.  So  Monsieur  Michel  repeated 
his  "  Ter-res  bien  !  "  and  fell  again  to  contem- 
plating his  Titian. 

Yes,  undoubtedly,  it  had  been  a  great  stroke 
of  diplomacy.  The  young  Marchese  degli  Ab- 
braccioli  was  not  conspicuous  for  his  command 
of  ready  money,  but  his  father  had  left  him  the 
finest  private  collection  of  paintings  in  Rome, 
and  this,  in  consequence  of  chronic  financial 
stress,  was  gradually  passing  from  the  walls  of 
his  palazzo  in  the  via  Cavour  into  the  posses- 
sion of  an  appreciative  but  none  too  extrava- 
gant government.  It  had  been  an  inspiration, 
this  proposal  of  Monsieur  Michel's  to  settle 
his  claim  upon  the  Marchese  for  his  over- 
whelming losses  at  baccarat  by  taking  over 
one  of  the  two  Titians  which  flanked  the  chim- 
ney-piece in  his  study.  The  young  Italian  had 
assented  eagerly,  and  had  supplemented  his 
acquiescence  with  a  proposal  to  dispose  of  the 
pendant  for  somewhat  more  material  remuner- 


250    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

ation  than  canceled  reconnaissances.  But  Ar- 
mand  Michel  had  undertaken  it  before,  this 
delicate  task  of  getting  objets  d'art  over  the 
Italian  frontier  —  yes,  and  been  caught  in  the 
act,  too,  and  forced  to  disgorge.  For  the  mo- 
ment, it  was  enough  to  charge  himself  with  one 
picture,  on  the  given  conditions,  without  risking 
hard  cash  in  the  experiment.  Later — well, 
later,  one  would  see.  And  so,  a  rivederla,  mio 
caro  marchese. 

Monsieur  Michel  fairly  hugged  himself  as 
he  thought  of  his  success.  Mon  Dieu,  quelle 
genie,  that  false  bottom  to  his  trunk  !  He  had 
come  safely  through  them  all,  the  imbecile  in- 
spectors, and  now  his  treasure  hung  fairly  and 
finally  upon  his  wall,  smiling  at  him  out  of  its 
tapestry  surroundings.  It  was  e'patant,  truly, 
and  moreover,  all  there  was  of  the  most  cale'. 
Only  one  small  cloud  of  regret  hung  upon  the 
broad  blue  firmament  of  his  satisfaction  —  the 
other  picture !  It  had  been  so  easy.  He 
might  as  well  have  had  two  as  one.  And  now, 
without  doubt,  the  imbecile  Marchese  would 
sell  the  pendant  to  the  imbecile  government, 
and  that  would  be  the  end  of  it  so  far  as  pri- 
vate purchase  was  concerned.  Monsieur  Mi- 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    251 

chel  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience, and,  drawing  the  curtain  back  from 
the  window,  looked  out  lugubriously  upon  the 
March  cheerlessness  of  the  place  Vendome. 
Little  by  little,  a  most  seductive  plan  formed 
itself  in  his  mind.  After  all,  why  not?  A 
couple  of  weeks  at  Monte  Carlo,  a  week  at 
Sorrento,  and  a  fortnight  at  Rome,  in  which  to 
win  the  Titian  from  the  Marchese  degli  Ab- 
braccioli,  by  baccarat  if  possible,  or  by  bank- 
notes should  fortune  prove  unkind.  It  was 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world,  and  he  would 
avoid  the  remainder  of  the  wet  weather  and 
be  back  for  the  opening  of  Longchamp.  And 
Monsieur  Michel  rubbed  his  hands  and  said 
"  Ter-res  bien  !  "  again,  with  much  emphasis. 

When,  a  week  later,  Arsene  was  informed  of 
Monsieur's  intention  to  leave  him  in  sole 
charge  of  his  apartment  for  a  time,  he  received 
the  intelligence  with  the  dignified  composure 
of  one  who  feels  himself  worthy  of  the  confi- 
dence reposed  in  him.  The  cook  was  to  have 
the  vacation  for  which  she  had  been  clamoring, 
that  she  might  display  to  her  relatives  in  Lille 
the  elaborate  wardrobe  which  was  the  result 
of  her  savings  during  three  years  in  Monsieur 


252    IN  THE   ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

Michel's  employ.  Perfectly.  And  the  apart- 
ment was  to  be  aired  and  dusted  daily,  as  if 
monsieur  himself  were  there.  And  visitors  to 
be  told  that  monsieur  was  returning  in  a  month. 
And  letters  to  be  made  to  follow  monsieur,  to 
Monte  Carlo  at  first,  and  then  to  Rome.  But 
perfectly ;  it  was  completely  understood.  Ar- 
sene  bowed  a  number  of  times  in  succession, 
and  outwardly  was  as  calm  as  a  tall,  candid- 
faced  clock,  being  wound  up  to  run  for  a  speci- 
fied time  independent  of  supervision.  But  be- 
neath that  smooth  and  carefully  oiled  expanse 
of  jet-black  hair  a  whole  colony  of  the  most 
fantastic  ideas  suddenly  aroused  themselves 
and  began  to  elbow  each  other  about  in  a  ver- 
itable tumult. 

Monsieur  Michel  took  his  departure  in  a 
whirl  of  confusion,  losing  a  quantity  of  indis- 
pensable articles  with  exclamations  of  despair, 
and  finding  them  the  next  moment  with  cries 
of  satisfaction.  Euge'nie,  the  cook,  compactly 
laced  into  a  traveling  dress  of  blue  silk,  stood 
at  the  doorway  to  bid  her  master  good-by,  and 
was  run  into  at  each  instant  by  the  cabman  or 
the  concierge  or  Monsieur  Michel  himself,  each 
of  whom  covered,  at  top  speed,  several  kilo- 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    253 

metres  of  stair  and  hallway,  in  the  stupendous 
task  of  transferring  a  trunk,  a  valise,  a  hat- 
box,  a  shawl-strap,  and  an  umbrella  from  the 
apartment  to  the  carriage  below.  On  the  sur- 
face of  this  uproar,  the  presence  of  Arsene 
swam  as  serenely  as  a  swan  on  a  maelstrom. 
He  accompanied  his  master  to  the  gare  de 
Lyon,  and  the  last  object  which  met  the  anx- 
ious eyes  of  Monsieur  Michel,  peering  out 
from  one  of  the  first-class  carriages  of  the  de- 
parting express,  was  his  new  servant,  standing 
upon  the  platform,  as  unmoved  by  the  events 
of  the  morning  as  if  monsieur  had  been  pass- 
ing from  the  dining  room  to  take  coffee  in  the 
salon  instead  of  from  Paris  to  take  breakfast 
in  Marseille.  The  sight  of  him  was  intensely 
soothing  to  the  fevered  spirit  of  Monsieur  Mi- 
chel, on  whom  the  details  of  such  a  departure 
produced  much  the  same  effect  as  do  cakes  of 
soap  when  tossed  into  the  mouth  of  an  active 
geyser. 

"  He  is  calm,"  he  said  to  himself,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "  He  is  very  calm,  and  he  will  not 
lose  his  head  while  I  am  gone.  Ter-res 
bien  !  " 

But  the  calm  of  Arsene  was  the  calm  of  thin 


254    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

ice  over  swiftly  rushing  waters.  As  the  pol- 
ished buffers  of  the  last  carriage  swung  out  of 
sight  around  the  curve  with  a  curiously  furtive 
effect,  like  the  eyes  of  an  alarmed  animal,  slip- 
ping backward  into  its  burrow,  he  clenched  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand,  and  slipping  his 
thumb  nail  under  the  edge  of  his  upper  teeth, 
drew  it  forward  with  a  sharp  click.  At  the 
same  time  he  said  something  to  his  vanished 
master  in  the  second  person  singular,  which  is 
far  from  being  the  address  of  affection  on  the 
lips  of  a  valet-maitre  d'hotel. 

Wheeling  suddenly  after  this  singular  mani- 
festation, Monsieur  Sigard  found  himself  the 
object  of  close  and  seemingly  amused  scrutiny 
on  the  part  of  an  individual  standing  directly 
behind  him.  There  was  something  so  ex- 
tremely disconcerting  in  this  gentleman's  un- 
expected proximity,  and  in  his  very  evident 
enjoyment  of  the  situation,  that  Arsene  was 
upon  the  point  of  turning  abruptly  away,  when 
the  other  addressed  him,  speaking  the  collo- 
quial French  of  their  class,  with  the  slightest 
possible  hint  of  foreign  accent. 

"  Bah,  vieux  !  Is  it  that  I  do  not  know  what 
they  are,  the  patrons  ?  Oh,  lala  !  " 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    255 

"  Avec  $a !  There  are  some  who  have  it,  an 
astounding  audacity  !  "  said  Arsene  to  the  air 
over  the  stranger's  head. 

"  Farceur !  "  replied  the  stranger,  to  the  air 
over  Arsene's.  And  then  — 

"  There  are  two  parrakeets  that  have  need 
of  plucking  across  the  way,"  he  added,  reflec- 
tively. 

"  There  are  two  empty  sacks  here  to  put  the 
feathers  in,"  answered  Arsene,  with  alacrity  ; 
and  ten  minutes  later,  oblivious  to  the  chill 
damp  of  the  March  morning,  Monsieur  Sigard 
and  his  new-found  acquaintance,  seated  at  a 
little  table  in  front  of  a  near-by  wine-shop, 
were  preparing  in  company  the  smoky-green 
mixture  of  absinthe  and  water  which  Paris 
slang  has  dubbed  a  parrakeet.  On  the  part  of 
Arsene  the  operation  was  performed  with  elab- 
orate solicitude,  and  as  he  poured  a  tiny  stream 
of  water  over  the  lump  of  sugar  on  the  flat 
spoon  balanced  deftly  across  the  glass,  he  held 
his  head  tipped  sidewise  and  his  left  eye  closed, 
in  the  manner  of  a  contemplative  fowl,  and  was 
oblivious  to  all  but  the  delectable  business  of 
the  moment. 

But  his  companion,  while  apparently  deeply 


256    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

engaged  in  the  preparation  of  his  own  bever- 
age, was  far  from  being  wholly  preoccupied 
thereby.  He  was  a  man  shorter  by  an  inch  or 
two  than  Monsieur  Michel's  maitre  d'hotel, 
dressed  in  the  most  inconspicuous  fashion,  and 
with  an  air  of  avoiding  any  emphasis  of  voice 
or  gesture  which  would  be  apt  to  attract  more 
than  casual  attention  to  the  circumstance  of 
his  existence.  There  was  something  about  him 
vaguely  suggestive  of  a  chameleon,  an  instant 
harmonizing  of  his  appearance  and  manner 
with  any  background  whatsoever  against  which 
he  chanced  to  find  himself  placed,  and  a  curi- 
ous clouding  of  his  eyes  when  unexpectedly 
they  were  met  by  those  of  another,  which  lent 
him  an  immediate  air  of  profound  stupidity. 
No  doubt  his  long  practice  in  this  habit  of 
self-obliteration  made  him  doubly  appreciative 
of  Arsene's  little  outburst  of  ill-feeling  on  the 
platform  of  the  gare  de  Lyon.  A  man  who 
would  do  that  in  public  —  well,  he  had  much 
to  learn  ! 

Just  now,  however,  this  gentleman's  eyes 
were  very  bright,  though  they  had  dwindled  to 
mere  slits ;  and  he  followed  every  movement  of 
the  unconscious  Arsene  with  short,  swift  glances 


IN  THE    ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    257 

from  beneath  his  drooping  lids,  as,  bit  by  bit, 
the  lumps  of  sugar  melted  under  the  steady 
drip  of  the  trickling  water,  and  the  opalescent 
mixture  mounted  toward  the  brims.  He  knew 
but  two  varieties  of  absinthe  drinker,  this  ob- 
servant individual,  —  the  one  who  progressed, 
under  its  influence,  from  cheerful  candor  to 
shrewdest  insight  into  the  motives  of  others, 
and  most  skilful  evasion  of  their  toils;  the 
other  whom,  by  easy  stages,  it  led  from  obsti- 
nate reserve  to  the  extreme  of  careless  garrul- 
ity. At  this  moment  he  was  on  the  alert  for 
symptoms. 

Arsene  looked  up  suddenly  as  the  last  mor- 
sel of  his  sugar  melted,  and,  lifting  his  glass, 
dipped  it  before  the  eyes  of  his  new  friend. 

"  To  your  health,  —  Monsieur  —  ?  "  he  said, 
in  courteous  interrogation. 

"  Fresque,"  said  the  other. 

"Bon!  And  I,  Monsieur  Fresque,  am  Si- 
gard,  Arsene  Sigard,  maitre  d'hotel,  at  your 
service,  of  the  type  who  has  just  taken  himself 
off,  down  there." 

And  he  indicated  the  imposing  pile  of  the 
gare  de  Lyon  with  his  thumb,  and  then,  clos- 
ing his  eyes,  took  a  long  sip  of  his  absinthe, 


258    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

and  replacing  the  glass  upon  the  table,  plunged 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  stared  off  gloom- 
ily toward  the  Seine. 

"  Poof ! "  he  said,  "  but  I  am  content  that 
he  is  gone.  What  a  filthiness,  a  rich  man  — 
what  ? " 

"  Not  to  be  denied,"  agreed  Monsieur 
Fresque.  "  There  is  not  a  foreign  sou's  worth 
of  delicacy  in  the  whole  lot !  " 

"  Mazette  !  I  believe  thee,"  answered  the 
other,  much  pleased.  Fresque's  thin  lips  re- 
laxed the  veriest  trifle  at  the  familiarity,  and 
he  lit  a  cigarette  and  gazed  vacantly  into 
space. 

"  But  what  dost  thou  expect  ? "  he  observed, 
with  calm  philosophy. 

It  appeared  that  what  Arsene  expected  was 
that  honest  folk  should  not  work  from  seven  to 
ten,  in  an  ignoble  box  of  a  pantry,  on  boots, 
and  silver,  and  what  not,  he  demanded  of  him, 
name  of  a  pipe !  and  dust,  and  sweep,  and 
serve  at  table,  good  heaven  !  and  practice  a 
species  of  disgusting  politeness  to  a  type  of 
old  engraving  like  Monsieur  Armand  Michel. 
And  all,  oh,  mon  Dieu  !  for  the  crushing  sum 
of  twenty  dollars  a  month,  did  he  compre- 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    259 

hend  ?  while  the  animal  in  question  was  sow- 
ing his  yellow  buttons  by  fistfuls.  Mazette ! 
Evidently,  he  himself  was  not  an  eagle.  He 
did  not  demand  the  Louvre  to  live  in,  for 
example,  nor  the  existence  lalala  of  Emile 
Loubet  —  what  ?  but  it  was  not  amusing,  he 
assured  him,  to  be  in  the  employ  of  the  great 
revolting  one  in  question.  Ah,  non  ! 

"  Eiffelesque  !  "  succinctly  commented  Mon- 
sieur Fresque. 

But,  said  Arsene,  there  was  another  side  to 
the  question,  and  he  himself,  it  went  without 
saying,  was  no  waffle-iron,  speaking  of  stupid- 
ity. He  had  not  been  present  the  day  fools 
were  distributed.  Oh,  far  from  that !  In  con- 
sequence, it  was  to  become  hump-backed  with 
mirth,  that  part  of  his  life  passed  behind  the 
back  of  the  example  of  an  old  Sophie  whom 
he  had  the  honor  to  serve.  He  had  not  for- 
gotten how  to  juggle  since  he  traveled  with  a 
band  of  mountebanks.  And  there  were  the 
patron's  plates,  —  at  one  hundred  francs  the 
piece,  good  blood !  Also  he  smoked  the  an- 
cient cantaloupe's  cigarettes,  and  as  for  the 
wines  —  tchutt !  Arsene  kissed  his  finger-tips 
and  took  a  long  sip  of  absinthe. 


260    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

"  He  is  gone  for  long  ?  "  inquired  Fresque. 

Ah,  that !  Who  knew  ?  Six  weeks  at  least. 
And  meanwhile  might  not  a  brave  lad  amuse 
himself  in  the  empty  apartment  —  eh  ?  Oh,  it 
would  be  life  in  a  gondola,  name  of  a  name  of 
a  name  ! 

The  conversation  was  prolonged  for  an  hour, 
Arsene  growing  more  and  more  confidential 
under  the  seductive  influence  of  his  parrakeet, 
and  his  companion  showing  himself  so  heartily 
in  accord  with  his  spirit  of  license,  that,  by  de- 
grees, he  captured  completely  the  fancy  of  the 
volatile  valet,  and  was  permitted  to  take  his 
departure  only  on  the  condition  of  presenting 
himself  in  the  place  Vendome  that  evening 
for  the  purpose  of  smoking  the  cantaloupe's 
cigarettes  and  seeing  Arsene  juggle  with  the 
hundred-franc  plates. 

Monsieur  Fresque  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  put  in  an  appearance  promptly  at  eight 
o'clock,  hung  his  hat  and  coat,  at  his  host's 
invitation,  on  a  Louis  Quinze  applique,  and 
made  himself  comfortable  in  a  chaise  longue 
which  —  on  the  guarantee  of  Duveen  —  had 
once  belonged  to  the  Pompadour.  Arsene  out- 
did himself  in  juggling,  and  afterwards  they 


IN  THE   ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    261 

cracked  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Laffitte  and  drank 
it  with  great  satisfaction  out  of  Salviati  glasses, 
topping  off  the  entertainment  with  Russian 
kiimmel  and  two  of  Monsieur  Michel's  cigars. 
Arsene,  in  his  picturesque  idiom,  expressed 
himself  as  being  tapped  in  the  eye  with  his 
new  friend  to  the  extent  of  being  able  to  quit 
him  no  longer,  and  forthwith  Monsieur  Hercule 
Fresque  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  bedroom 
of  the  cantaloupe,  his  host  established  himself 
in  Monsieur  Michel's  Empire  guest  chamber, 
and  the  "  life  in  a  gondola  "  went  forward  for 
five  weeks  to  the  supreme  contentment  of  both 
parties. 

Now  it  is. a  peculiarity  of  life  in  a  gondola,  as 
is  known  to  all  who  have  sampled  its  delights, 
that,  while  it  lasts,  consideration  of  past  and 
future  alike  becomes  dulled,  and  one  loses  all 
sense  of  responsibility  in  the  lethal  torpor  of 
the  present.  So  it  was  not  until  Arsene  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Monsieur  Michel,  announ- 
cing his  return,  that  he  began  to  figure  up  the 
possible  consequences  of  his  experiment.  They 
were,  as  he  gloomily  announced  to  Hercule, 
stupefying  to  the  extent  of  dashing  out  one's 
brains  against  the  wall.  But  one  bottle  of 


262    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

Chateau  Laffitte  remained,  and  none  whatever 
of  Russian  kiimmel.  Moreover,  the  brocade 
of  the  chaise  longue  was  hopelessly  ruined  by 
the  boots  of  the  conspirators,  and  the  enthusi- 
asm of  Arsene's  juggling  had  reduced  by  fifty 
per  cent,  the  set  of  Sevres  plates.  What  was 
to  be  done,  bon  Dieu,  what  was  to  be  done  ? 

Monsieur  Fresque,  having  carefully  perused 
a  letter  with  an  Italian  stamp,  which  had  come 
by  the  evening  mail,  revolved  the  situation  in 
his  mind,  slowly  smoking  the  last  of  the  can- 
taloupe's cigars,  and  glancing  from  time  to 
time  at  the  despondent  figure  of  his  host,  with 
his  eyes  narrowed  to  mere  slits.  Had  the  fish 
been  sufficiently  played  ?  He  reeled  in  a  foot 
or  so  of  line  by  way  of  experiment. 

"What,  after  all,  is  a  situation?"  he  said. 
"Thou  wilt  be  discharged,  yes.  But  after- 
wards ?  Pah  !  thou  wilt  find  another.  And 
thou  hast  thy  rigolade." 

"  Ah,  that ! "  replied  Arsene  with  a  shrug. 
"  I  believe  thee !  But  thinkest  thou  my  old 
melon  will  find  himself  in  the  way  of  glueing 
the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  on  me  for  what  I 
have  done  ?  I  see  myself  from  here,  playing 
the  harp  on  the  bars  of  La  Maz  !  " 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    263 

"  La  vie  a  Mazas,  c'est  pas  la  vie  en  gon- 
dole,"  observed  Hercule  philosophically. 

"Tu  paries!" 

Hercule  appeared  to  take  a  sudden  resolve. 
He  swung  his  feet  to  the  floor,  and  bending 
forward  in  the  chaise  longue,  began  to  speak 
rapidly  and  with  extreme  earnestness. 

"Voyons,  done,  mon  gars,  thou  hast  been 
foolish,  but  one  must  not  despair.  What  is 
done  in  France  is  never  known  in  Italy.  And 
here  thou  art  surrounded  by  such  treasures  as 
the  imbeciles  of  foreigners  pay  fortunes  for, 
below  there.  Take  what  thou  hast  need  of, 
—  a  trunk  of  the  patron's,  some  silver,  what 
thou  canst  lay  hands  on  of  gold  and  brass 
and  enamel,  whatever  will  not  break  —  and 
get  away  before  he  returns.  In  Milan  thou 
canst  sell  it  all,  and  get  another  place.  I 
have  friends  there,  and  thou  shalt  have  letters. 
Voila  !  " 

"  But  one  must  have  money,"  replied  Arsene, 
brightening,  nevertheless.  "  And  that  is  lack- 
ing me." 

Hercule  seemed  to  ponder  this  objection 
deeply.  Finally,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation,  he 
spoke  again. 


264    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

"  B'en,  voila !  Thou  hast  been  my  friend,  is 
it  not  so  ?  Hercule  Fresque  is  not  the  man  to 
be  ungrateful.  I  am  poor,  and  have  need  of 
my  little  savings  —  But,  there !  it  is  for  a 
friend  —  pas  ?  Let  us  say  no  more  !  "  And  he 
thrust  a  roll  of  banknotes  into  the  hands  of 
the  stupefied  Arsene. 

The  evening  was  spent  in  arranging  the  de- 
tails of  the  flight.  Arsene  produced  a  service- 
able trunk  from  the  storeroom,  and  in  this  the 
two  men  placed  a  great  variety  of  the  trea- 
sures which  Monsieur  Michel  had  accumulated 
during  twenty  years  of  patient  search  and  ex- 
orbitant purchase.  Squares  of  priceless  tapes- 
try, jeweled  watches  and  snuff  boxes,  figurines 
of  old  Sevres,  ivories  cunningly  carved  and 
yellow  with  age,  madonnas  of  box-wood,  and 
wax,  and  ebony,  —  all  were  carefully  wrapped 
in  newspapers  and  stowed  away ;  and  to  these 
Arsene  added  a  dozen  of  his  master's  shirts, 
two  suits  of  clothes,  and  a  box  of  cigarettes. 
But  when  all  the  available  material  had  been 
appropriated  there  yet  remained  an  empty 
space  below  the  tray.  It  would  never  do  to 
have  the  treasures  knocking  about  on  the 
way.  Arsene  proposed  a  blanket  —  or,  better 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    265 

yet,  one  of  Monsieur  Michel's  overcoats.  But 
Hercule,  after  rearranging  the  trunk  so  as  to 
make  the  empty  space  of  different  form,  turned 
suddenly  to  his  companion,  who  was  picking 
nervously  at  his  fingers  and  watching  the  so 
fruitful  source  of  suggestion  with  a  pathetic 
air  of  entreaty,  and  clapped  him  gleefully  upon 
the  chest. 

"  A  painting  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Complete  demoralization  seemed  to  have 
taken  possession  of  Arsene.  He  was  very 
pale,  and  his  eyes  constantly  sought  the  salon 
door  as  if  he  expected  the  object  of  his  ingen- 
ious epithets  to  burst  in  at  any  moment,  with 
the  prefect  and  all  his  legions  at  his  heels. 

"  A  painting  ? "  he  repeated  blankly ;  "  but 
how,  a  painting  ?  " 

But  Monsieur  Fresque  had  already  mounted 
nimbly  on  a  chair  and  lifted  the  cherished  Ti- 
tian of  Monsieur  Michel  from  its  place  against 
the  tapestry.  There  was  no  further  need  of 
persuasion.  The  moment  had  come  for  ac- 
tion ;  and,  seizing  a  hammer,  he  began  to 
wrench  off  the  frame,  talking  rapidly  between 
short  gasps  of  exertion. 

"  But  certainly,    a  painting.     This   one   is 


266    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

small  —  ugh  !  —  but  who  can  say  how  valuable  ? 
They  sell  readily  down  there,  these  black 
daubs.  Ah  !  By  rolling,  it  will  fill  the  empty 
space,  seest  thou,  and  later  it  may  mean  a 
thousand  francs.  One  does  not  do  things  by 
—  umph  !  —  by  halves  in  such  a  case.  Sacred 
nails !  One  would  say  they  had  been  driven 
in  for  eternity  !  Oof  !  Thou  art  fortunate  to 
have  me  to  advise  thee,  great  imbecile.  May- 
hap this  is  worth  all  the  rest.  Pig  of  a  frame, 
va  !  It  is  of  iron.  Ugh  !  He  will  be  furious, 
thy  patron,  but  what  of  that  ?  In  Italy  thou 
wilt  hear  no  more  of  it.  Still  one  nail.  Come 
away,  then,  type  of  a  cow  !  Enfin  !  " 

With  one  final  effort  he  tore  off  the  last 
fragment  of  frame,  peeled  the  canvas  from  the 
back-board,  and,  rolling  it  carefully,  tucked  it 
into  the  empty  space,  replaced  the  tray,  and 
closed  the  trunk  with  a  snap. 

"  Voila !  "  he  said,  straightening  himself  and 
turning  a  red  but  triumphant  face  to  the  as- 
tounded maitre  d'hotel. 

"  Now  for  the  letters,"  he  added,  seating 
himself  at  Monsieur  Michel's  desk  and  begin- 
ning to  scribble  busily.  "  Do  thou  go  for  a 
cab,  and  at  a  gallop.  It  has  struck  half  past 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    267 

ten  and  the  Bale  rapide  leaves  the  gare  de  1'Est 
at  midnight." 

Hardly  had  the  door  of  the  apartment 
closed  upon  the  demoralized  valet  when  Mon- 
sieur Fresque  hastily  shoved  to  one  side  the 
note  he  had  begun,  and,  writing  a  sentence  or 
two  upon  another  slip  of  paper,  wrapped  the 
latter  about  a  two-sou  piece,  and  went  quietly 
to  the  salon  window.  Opening  this  cautiously, 
he  found  a  fine  rain  falling  outside,  and  the 
eastern  half  of  the  square  deserted  save  for 
two  figures,  —  one  the  flying  form  of  Arsene, 
cutting  across  a  corner  into  the  rue  Castigli- 
one  in  search  of  a  cab,  and  the  other  that  of 
a  man  muffled  in  a  heavy  overcoat  and  with 
a  slouch  hat  pulled  well  over  his  eyes,  who  was 
lounging  against  the  railing  of  the  Column, 
and  who,  as  Fresque  opened  the  window,  shook 
himself  into  activity  and  stepped  nimbly  out 
across  the  wide  driveway.  Hercule  placed  the 
paper  containing  the  two-sou  piece  upon  the 
window  sill  and  with  a  sharp  flick  of  his  fore- 
finger sent  it  spinning  down  into  the  square. 
The  man  in  the  slouch  hat  stooped  for  an  in- 
stant in  passing  the  spot  where  it  lay,  and 
Monsieur  Fresque,  softly  closing  the  window, 


268    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

stretched  his  arms  upward  into  a  semblance 
of  a  gigantic  letter  Y,  and  indulged  in  a  prodi- 
gious yawn. 

"  ga  y  est !  "  said  he. 

Papa  Briguette  had  long  since  climbed  into 
his  high  bedstead,  in  the  loge  de  concierge, 
when,  for  the  second  time  in  fifteen  minutes, 
he  was  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Arsene  calling, 
"  Cordon,  s'il  vous  plait ! "  in  the  main  hall- 
way, and,  reaching  from  under  his  feather  cov- 
erlid, pressed  the  bulb  which  unlocked  the 
street-door. 

"  Quel  coureur,  que  ce  gars  !  "  grumbled 
the  worthy  man  to  his  fat  spouse,  snoring  com- 
placently at  his  side.  "  I  deceive  myself  if, 
when  Monsieur  Michel  returns,  thou  dost  not 
hear  a  different  story." 

"  Awr-r-r-r  !  "  replied  Maman  Briguette. 

On  the  way  to  the  gare  de  1'Est  Arsene  re- 
covered the  better  part  of  his  lost  composure, 
and  listened  with  something  akin  to  cheerful- 
ness to  the  optimistic  prognostications  of  his 
companion.  By  the  time  the  precious  trunk 
was  registered  and  he  had  secured  his  seat  in 
a  second-class  compartment  of  the  Bale  rapide, 
he  was  once  more  in  high  feather  and  profuse 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF    MONSIEUR    269 

in  expressions  of  gratitude,  as  he  smoked  a 
farewell  cigarette  with  Fresque  while  waiting 
for  the  train  to  start. 

"  Thou  canst  believe  me,  mon  vieux,"  he 
protested.  "  It  is  not  a  little  thing  that  thou 
hast  done,  name  of  a  name.  Ah,  non  !  It 
was  the  act  of  a  brave  comrade,  that  I  assure 
thee.  Et  voyons  !  When  I  have  sold  the  ef- 
fects down  there,  thou  shalt  have  back  thy  lit- 
tle paper  mattress,  word  of  honor  !  Yes,  and 
more  —  thy  share  of  the  gain,  mon  zig  !  " 

He  grasped  the  other's  hand  fervently  as  a 
passing  guard  threw  them  a  curt  "  En  voiture, 
messieurs  !  "  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  kiss- 
ing him  farewell.  There  was  some  confusion 
attendant  upon  his  entering  the  compartment, 
owing  to  the  excessive  haste  of  a  man  muffled  in 
a  heavy  overcoat  and  with  a  slouch  hat  pulled 
well  over  his  eyes,  who  arrived  at  the  last  mo- 
ment and  persisted  in  scrambling  in,  at  the  very 
instant  chosen  by  Monsieur  Sigard.  The  latter 
immediately  reappeared  at  the  window,  and,  as 
the  train  began  to  move,  shouted  a  few  final 
acknowledgments  at  his  benefactor. 

"  B'en,  au  r'voir,  vieux !  And  I  will  write 
thee  from  below  there,  thou  knowest.  A  thou- 


270    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

sand  thanks.  Fear  not  for  thy  blue  paper  — 
what  ?  Thou  shalt  have  it  back,  spu  for  sou, 
name  of  a  name  !  " 

He  was  almost  out  of  hearing  now,  his  face 
a  cream-colored  splotch  against  the  deep  ma- 
roon of  the  railway  carriage,  and,  drawing  out 
a  gaudy  handkerchief,  he  waved  it  several 
times  in  token  of  farewell. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  thee,  never !  "  he  cried, 
as  a  kind  of  afterthought  and  valedictory  in 
one. 

"  Ah,  9, a  !  "  said  Monsieur  Fresque  to  him- 
self, as  Arsene's  face  went  out  of  sight,  "that 
I  well  believe  ! " 

Yet,  so  inconstant  is  man,  the  promised  let- 
ter from  "below  there"  never  reached  him. 
Another  did,  however,  and  it  was  this  which 
he  might  have  been  observed  reading  to  a 
friend,  with  every  evidence  of  the  liveliest  sat- 
isfaction, one  week  later,  at  a  rear  table  before 
the  Taverne  Royale.  One  would  hardly  have 
recognized  the  plainly,  almost  shabbily  dressed 
comrade  of  Arsene,  with  his  retiring  manners 
and  his  furtive  eyes,  in  this  extremely  prosper- 
ous individual,  in  polished  top  hat,  white  waist- 
coat and  gaiters,  and  gloves  of  lemon  yellow. 


IN  THE  ABSENCE   OF  MONSIEUR  271 

His  companion  was  equally  imposing  in  ap- 
pearance, and  it  was  apparent  that  he  derived 
as  much  amusement  from  listening  to  Mon- 
sieur Fresque's  epistle  as  did  the  latter  from 
reading  it  aloud,  which  he  did  with  the  most 
elaborate  emphasis,  calling  the  other's  atten- 
tion to  certain  sentences  by  tapping  him  lightly 
upon  the  arm  and  repeating  them  more  slowly. 
The  letter  was  in  Italian,  and  ran  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

MILAN,  April  20,  1901. 

MY  GOOD  ERCOLE,  —  I  am  leaving  here  to- 
day for  Rome,  where  the  case  of  the  govern- 
ment against  the  Marchese  degli  Abbraccioli 
is  to  come  on  next  week,  but  before  I  do  so  I 
must  write  you  of  the  last  act  in  the  little  com- 
edy of  Arsene  Sigard.  I  never  lost  sight  of 
him  from  the  moment  we  left  Paris,  and  when 
he  found  I  was  also  on  my  way  to  Italy,  he 
became  confidential,  and,  in  exchange  for  cer- 
tain information  which  I  was  able  to  give  him 
about  Milan,  etc.,  told  me  a  long  story  about 
himself  and  his  affairs,  which  I  found  none  the 
less  amusing  for  knowing  it  to  be  a  tissue  of 
lies.  The  time  passed  readily  enough,  but  I 
was  relieved  when  we  started  over  the  St.  Go- 


272    IN  THE    ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

thard,  because  I  knew  then  that  the  game  was 
as  good  as  played.  We  arrived  at  Chiasso  on 
time  (two  o'clock)  and  I  found  Sassevero  on  the 
platform  when  I  jumped  out.  He  had  come 
on  from  Rome  the  night  before,  and  was  in 
a  positive  panic  because  Palmi,  who  had  been 
watching  old  Michel  there,  had  lost  him  some- 
how and  nobody  knew  where  he  ?d  gone.  He 
might  have  come  through  on  any  train,  of 
course,  and  Sassevero  did  n't  even  know  him 
by  sight. 

Naturally,  our  little  business  with  Sigard 
was  soon  done.  Cagliacci  is  still  chief  of  cus- 
toms at  Chiasso,  and  he  simply  confiscated  the 
trunk  and  everything  in  it,  though,  of  course, 
the  government  was  n't  after  anything  but  the 
picture.  There  were  two  hours  of  argument 
/over  the  disposition  of  Sigard,  but  it  seemed 
best  to  let  him  go  and  nothing  further  said, 
which  he  was  only  too  glad  to  do.  The  Old 
Man  is  shy  of  diplomatic  complications,  it  ap- 
pears, and  he  had  told  Sassevero  to  frighten 
the  chap  thoroughly  and  then  let  him  slip  off. 

Here  comes  in  the  most  remarkable  part  of 
all.  Just  as  Sigard  was  marching  out  of  the 
room,  in  came  the  Lucerne  express,  and  our 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR    273 

friend  walks  almost  into  the  arms  of  an  oldish 
gentleman  who  had  jumped  out  of  a  carriage 
and  was  hurrying  into  the  customs  room. 

"Bon  Dieu!"  said  this  individual,  "what 
does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  What  does  what  mean  ?  "  put  in  Sassevero 
like  a  flash,  and  the  other  was  so  taken  by  sur- 
prise that,  before  he  had  time  to  think  what  he 
was  saying,  the  secret  was  out. 

"  That 's  my  valet  de  chambre  !  "  he  said. 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Sassevero.  "  Buavo !  Then 
you  're  the  gentleman  with  the  Marchese  degli 
Abbraccioli's  second  Titian  in  the  false  bottom 
of  his  trunk  !  " 

Could  anything  have  been  more  exquisite  ? 
The  old  chap  is  out  some  hundred  thousand 
lire  on  the  transaction,  because,  of  course, 
Cagliacci  confiscated  it  like  the  other.  It  was 
a  sight  to  remember,  —  the  two  pictures  side 
by  side  in  his  room,  and  Michel  and  Sigard 
cursing  each  other  above  them  !  We  all  went 
on  to  Milan  by  the  next  train,  except  Sigard, 
who  did  the  prudent  thing  on  the  appearance 
of  his  padrone,  and  disappeared,  but  Michel's 
appeal  to  the  French  consulate  was  of  no 
effect.  The  consul  told  him  flat  that  he  was 


274    IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  MONSIEUR 

going  directly  against  the  law  in  trying  to  get 
old  works  of  art  over  the  frontier,  and  that  he 
could  n't  plead  ignorance  after  the  detail  of 
the  false  bottom. 

Sassevero  says  the  Old  Man  is  immensely 
pleased  with  the  way  you  handled  your  end  of 
the  affair.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  Sigard 
apparently  had  n't  the  most  remote  suspicion 
of  your  being  in  any  way  involved  in  his  catas- 
trophe. 

Your  most  devoted, 

CAVALETTO. 


Little  Tapin 

HIS  name  was  Jean-Marie-Michel  Ju- 
miere,  and  the  first  eighteen  years  of  his 
life  were  spent  near  the  little  Breton  vil- 
lage of  Plougastel.  They  were  years  of  which 
each  was,  in  every  respect,  like  that  which  went 
before,  and,  in  every  respect,  like  that  which 
followed  after :  years,  that  is  to  say,  devoid  of 
incident,  beyond  the  annual  pardon,  when  the 
peasants  came  from  far  and  near  to  the  quaint 
little  church,  to  offer  their  prayers  at  the  cem- 
etery Calvary,  and  display  their  holiday  cos- 
tumes, and  make  love,  and  exchange  gossip  on 


276  LITTLE  TAPIN 

the  turf  round  about.  It  is  a  land  of  wide 
and  wind-swept  hillsides,  this,  imbued  with  the 
strange  melancholy  of  a  wild  and  merciless 
sea,  and  wherein  there  are  no  barriers  of  con- 
vention or  artificiality  between  earth  and  sky, 
man  and  his  Maker  j  but  Jean-Marie  loved  it 
for  its  very  bleakness.  From  the  doorway  of 
his  mother's  cottage,  standing,  primly  white,  in 
the  midst  of  great  rocks  and  strawberry  fields, 
with  its  thatched  roof  drawn  down,  like  a  hood, 
about  its  ears,  as  if  in  protection  against  the 
western  gales,  he  could  look  out  across  the 
broad  harbor  of  Brest  to  the  Goulet,  the  gate- 
way to  that  great  Atlantic  whose  mighty  voice 
came  to  his  ears  in  stormy  weather,  muttering 
against  the  barrier  of  the  shore.  And  this 
voice  of  the  sea  spoke  to  Jean-Marie  of  many 
things,  but,  most  of  all,  of  the  navies  of  France, 
of  the  mighty  battleships  which  went  out  from 
Brest  to  unimagined  lands,  far  distant,  China, 
America,  and  the  southern  islands,  whence 
comrades,  older  than  himself,  brought  back 
curious  treasures,  coral,  and  shells,  and  coins, 
and  even  parrots,  to  surprise  the  good  people 
of  Plougastel.  He  looked  at  them  enviously,  as 
they  gathered  about  the  door  of  Pere  Yvetot's 


LITTLE   TAPIN  277 

wine-shop,  when  they  were  home  on  leave,  and 
spun  sailor  yarns  for  his  delighted  ears.  How 
wonderful  they  were,  these  men  who  had  seen 
the  world,  —  Toulon,  and  Marseille,  and  Ton- 
kin, —  how  wonderful,  with  their  wide,  flapping 
trousers,  and  their  jaunty  caps,  with  a  white 
strap  and  a  red  pompon,  and  their  throats  and 
breasts,  showing  ruddy  bronze  at  the  necks  of 
their  shirts  ! 

At  such  times  Jean-Marie  would  join  timidly 
in  the  talk,  and,  perhaps,  speak  of  the  time 
when  he,  too,  should  be  marin  fran^ais,  and 
see  the  world.  And  the  big  Breton  sailors 
would  laugh  good-naturedly,  and  slap  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  say :  "  Tiens !  And  how 
then  shall  the  cruisers  find  their  way  into  Brest 
harbor,  when  the  little  phare  is  gone  ?  "  For 
it  was  a  famous  joke  in  Plougastel  to  pretend 
that  Jean-Marie,  with  his  flaming  red  hair,  was 
a  lighthouse,  which  could  be  seen  through  the 
Goulet,  far,  far  out  at  sea. 

But  Jean-Marie  only  smiled  quietly  in  reply, 
for  he  knew  that  his  day  would  come.  At 
night,  the  west  wind,  sweeping  in  from  the  At- 
lantic, and  rattling  his  little  casement,  seemed 
to  be  calling  him,  and  it  was  a  fancy  of  his  to 


278  LITTLE    TAPIN 

answer  its  summons  in  a  whisper,  turning  his 
face  toward  the  window. 

"  All  in  good  time,  my  friend.  All  in  good 
time  !  " 

Again,  when  he  was  working  in  the  straw- 
berry fields,  he  would  strain  his  eyes  to  catch 
the  outline  of  some  big  green  battleship,  an- 
chored off  Brest,  or,  during  one  of  his  rare 
visits  to  the  town,  lean  upon  the  railing  of  the 
pont  tournant,  to  watch  the  sailors  and  marines 
moving  about  the  barracks  and  magazines  on 
the  quais  of  the  porte  militaire.  All  in  good 
time,  my  friends ;  all  in  good  time  ! 

Only,  there  were  two  to  whom  one  did  riot 
speak  of  these  things,  —  the  Little  Mother, 
and  Rosalie  Vivieu.  Already  the  sea  had 
taken  three  from  Madame  Jumiere  —  Baptiste, 
her  husband,  and  Philippe  and  Yves,  the  older 
boys,  who  went  out  together,  with  the  fishing 
fleet,  seven  years  before,  in  the  staunch  little 
smack  La  Belle  Fortune.  She  had  been  cheer- 
ful, even  merry,  during  the  long  weeks  of  wait- 
ing for  the  fleet's  return,  and,  when  it  came  in 
one  evening,  with  news  of  La  Belle  Fortune 
cut  down  in  the  fog  by  a  North  Cape  German 
Lloyd,  and  all  hands  lost,  she  had  taken  the 


LITTLE  TAPIN  279 

news  as  only  a  Breton  woman  can.  Jean- 
Marie  was  but  twelve  at  the  time,  but  there  is 
an  intuition,  beyond  all  reckoning  in  years,  in 
the  heart  of  a  fisher's  son,  and  never  should 
he  forget,  how  the  Little  Mother  had  caught 
him  to  her  heart  that  night,  at  the  doorway  of 
their  cottage,  crying,  "  Holy  Saviour !  Holy 
Saviour  !  "  with  her  patient  blue  eyes  upturned 
to  the  cold,  grey  sky  of  Finistere  !  As  for 
Rosalie,  Jean-Marie  could  not  remember  when 
they  two  had  not  been  sweethearts,  since  the 
day  when,  as  a  round-eyed  boy  of  six,  he  had 
watched  Madame  Vivieu  crowding  morsels  of 
blessed  bread  into  her  baby  mouth  at  the  par- 
don of  Plougastel,  since  all  the  world  knows 
that  in  such  manner  only  can  backwardness  of 
speech  be  cured.  Rosalie  was  sixteen  now,  as 
round,  and  pink,  and  sweet  as  one  of  her  own 
late  peaches,  and  she  had  promised  to  marry 
Jean-Marie  some  day.  For  the  time  being,  he 
was  allowed  to  kiss  her  only  on  the  great  occa- 
sion of  the  pardon,  but  that  was  once  more 
each  year  than  any  other  gars  in  Plougastel 
could  do,  so  Jean-Marie  was  content.  No,  evi- 
dently, to  these  two  there  must  be  no  mention 
of  his  dreamings  of  the  wide  and  wonderful 


280  LITTLE  TAPIN 

sea,  of  the  summons  of  the  impatient  western 
wind,  of  those  long  reveries  upon  the  pont 
tournant. 

So  Jean-Marie  hugged  his  visions  to  his 
heart  for  another  year,  working  in  the  straw- 
berry fields,  gazing  out  with  longing  eyes  to- 
ward the  warships  in  the  harbor,  and  whisper- 
ing, when  the  fingers  of  the  wind  tapped  upon 
his  little  casement :  "  All  in  good  time,  my 
friend.  All  in  good  time !  " 

And  his  day  came  at  last,  as  he  had  known 
it  would.  But  with  what  a  difference !  For 
there  were  many  for  the  navy  that  spring. 
Plougastel  had  nine,  and  Daoulas  fifteen  ready, 
and  Hanvec  seven,  and  Crozon  twenty-one, 
and  from  Landerneau,  and  Chateaulin,  and 
Lambezellec,  and  le  Folgoet  came  fifty  more, 
and  from  Brest  itself,  a  hundred  ;  and  all  of 
these,  with  few  exceptions,  were  great,  broad- 
shouldered  lads,  strong  of  arm  and  deep  of 
chest,  and  so  the  few  who  were  slender  and 
fragile,  like  Jean-Marie,  were  assigned  to  the 
infantry,  and  sent,  as  is  the  custom,  far  from 
Finistere,  because,  says  the  code,  change  of 
scene  prevents  homesickness,  and  what  the 
code  says  must,  of  course,  be  true. 


LITTLE  TAPIN  281 

When  Madame  Jumiere  heard  this  she  smiled 
as  she  was  seldom  known  to  smile.  The  Holy 
Virgin,  then,  had  listened  to  her  prayers.  The 
gars  was  to  be  a  piou-piou  instead  of  a  col  bleu, 
after  all !  The  great  sea  should  not  rob  her 
again,  as  it  had  robbed  her  in  the  time.  It 
was  very  well,  oh,  grace  au  saint  Sauveur,  it 
was  very  well !  And,  all  that  night,  the  Little 
Mother  prayed,  and  watched  a  tiny  taper,  flick- 
ering before  her  porcelain  image  of  Notre 
Dame  de  la  Recouvrance,  while  Jean-Marie 
tossed  and  turned  upon  his  little  garret  bed, 
and  made  no  reply,  even  in  a  whisper,  to  the 
west  wind,  rattling  his  casement  with  insistent 
fingers. 

But  it  was  all  far  worse  than  he  had  pictured 
it  to  himself,  even  in  those  first  few  hours  of 
disappointment  and  despair.  The  last  Sunday 
afternoon  which  he  and  Rosalie  passed,  hand 
in  hand,  seated  by  the  Calvary  in  Plougastel 
cemetery,  striving  dumbly  to  realize  that  they 
should  see  each  other  no  more  for  three  long 
years ;  the  following  morning,  chill  and  bleak 
for  that  time  of  year,  when  he  and  the  Little 
Mother,  standing  on  the  platform  of  the  sta- 
tion at  Brest,  could  barely  see  each  others' 


282  LITTLE  TAPIN 

faces,  for  the  sea-fog  and  their  own  hot  tears  ; 
the  shouts  and  laughter  and  noisy  farewells 
of  the  classe,  crowding  out  of  the  windows  of 
their  third-class  carriages  ;  and,  finally,  the  in- 
terminable journey  to  Paris,  —  all  of  these 
were  to  Jean-Marie  like  the  successive  stages 
of  a  feverish,  uneasy  dream.  He  knew  none 
of  the  noisy  Breton  peasant  lads  about  him, 
but  sat  by  himself  in  the  centre  of  the  com- 
partment, too  far  from  either  window  to  catch 
more  than  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  fog-wrapped 
landscape  through  which  the  train  crept  at 
thirty  kilometres  the  hour.  At  long  intervals, 
they  stopped  in  great  stations,  of  which  little 
Jean-Marie  remembered  to  have  heard,  —  Mor- 
laix,  St.  Brieuc,  Rennes,  and  Laval,  where  the 
recruits  bought  cakes  and  bottles  of  cheap 
wine,  and  joked  with  white-capped  peasant 
women  on  the  platforms ;  and  twice  during  the 
long  night  he  was  roused  from  a  fitful,  troubled 
sleep  to  a  consciousness  of  raucous  voices  cry- 
ing "  Le  Mans  !  "  and  "  Chartres  !  "  and  gasped 
in  sudden  terror  —  before  he  could  remember 
where  he  was  —  at  the  faces  of  his  slumber- 
ing companions,  ghastly  and  distorted  in  the 
wretched  light  of  the  compartment  lamp.  So, 


LITTLE  TAPIN  283 

as  the  dawn  was  breaking  over  Paris,  they 
came  into  the  gare  Montparnasse,  and,  too 
drowsy  to  realize  what  was  demanded  of  them, 
were  herded  together  by  the  drill  sergeants  in 
charge,  and  marched  away  across  the  city  to 
the  barracks  of  La  Pepiniere. 

The  weeks  that  followed  were  to  Jean-Marie 
hideous  beyond  any  means  of  expression. 
From  the  first  he  had  been  assigned  to  the 
drum-corps,  and  spent  hours  daily,  under  com- 
mand of  a  corporal  expert  in  the  art,  labori- 
ously learning  double  rolls  and  ruffles  in  the 
fosse  of  the  fortifications.  For  they  are  not  in 
the  way  of  enduring  martyrdom,  the  Parisians, 
and  even  while  they  cry  "  Vive  Parme'e  !  "  with 
their  hats  off,  and  their  eyes  blazing,  the  drum- 
mers and  buglers  are  sent  out  of  hearing,  to 
practice  the  music  that  later,  when  the  regi- 
ments parade,  will  stir  the  patriotism  of  the 
throng. 

But  this  part  of  his  new  life  was  no  hardship 
to  Jean-Marie,  or  Little  Tapin,  as  his  comrades 
soon  learned  to  call  him,  because  he  was  the 
smallest  drummer  in  the  corps.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  something  to  be  in  the  open  air, 
even  though  that  air  was  tainted  with  sluggish 


284  LITTLE    TAPIN 

smoke  from  the  factory  chimneys  of  Levallois- 
Perret,  instead  of  being  swept  and  refreshed  by 
the  west  wind  from  beyond  the  Goulet.  And  he 
was  very  earnest,  very  anxious  to  please,  was 
Little  Tapin.  First  of  all  the  new  drummers,  he 
learned  the  intricacies  of  the  roll,  and  so  dili- 
gently did  he  improve  the  hours  of  practice 
that  he  was  first,  as  well,  to  be  regularly  as- 
signed to  a  place  in  the  regimental  band.  No, 
this  was  no  hardship.  What  cramped  and 
crushed  his  kindly  little  heart,  what  clouded 
his  queer,  quizzical  eyes,  was  nothing  less  than 
Paris,  beautiful,  careless  Paris,  that  laughed, 
and  danced,  and  sang  about  him,  and  had 
never  a  thought  for  Little  Tapin,  with  his 
funny,  freckled  face,  and  his  ill-fitting  uniform 
of  red  and  blue,  and  his  coarse  boots,  and  his 
ineradicable  Breton  stare. 

In  Plougastel  he  had  been  wont  to  greet  and 
to  be  greeted,  to  hear  cheery  words  from  those 
who  passed  him  on  the  wide,  white  roads.  He 
was  part  of  it  all,  one  who  was  called  by  his 
honest  name,  instead  of  by  a  ridiculous  sobri- 
quet, and  who  had  his  share  in  all  that  went 
forward,  from  the  strawberry  harvest  to  the 
procession  of  the  pardon.  And  if  all  this  was 


LITTLE  TAPIN  285 

but  neighborly  interest,  at  least  there  were  two 
to  whom  Jean-Marie  meant  more,  and  who 
meant  more  to  him. 

But  Paris,  —  Paris,  with  her  throngs  of 
strange  faces  hurrying  past,  her  brilliantly 
lighted  boulevards,  her  crowded  cafes,  her 
swirl  of  traffic  along  avenues  that  one  crossed 
only  at  peril  of  one's  life,  —  he  was  lost 
amid  her  clamor  and  confusion  as  utterly  as 
a  bubble  in  a  whirlpool !  The  bitterest  hours 
of  his  new  life  were  those  of  his  leave,  in 
which,  with  a  band  of  his  fellows,  he  went 
out  of  the  great  green  gates  of  the  caserne  to 
seek  amusement.  Amusement !  They  soon 
lost  Little  Tapin,  the  others,  for  he  was  one 
who  did  not  drink,  and  who  walked  straight  on 
when  they  turned  to  speak  to  passing  grisettes, 
who  clung  to  each  others'  arms,  and  looked 
back,  laughing  at  the  sallies  of  the  piou-pious. 
He  was  not  bon  camarade.  He  seemed  to 
disapprove.  So,  presently,  while  he  was  staring 
into  a  shop  window,  they  would  slip  down  a 
side  street,  or  into  a  tiny  cafe,  and  Little  Tapin 
would  find  himself  alone  in  the  great  city  which 
he  dreaded. 

He  came  to  spending  long  hours  of  his  leave 


286  LITTLE  TAPIN 

in  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  hastening  past 
row  upon  row  of  nude  statues  with  startled 
eyes,  or  making  his  way  wearily  from  picture 
to  picture  of  the  old  Dutch  masters,  striving, 
striving  to  understand.  Then,  footsore  and 
heartsick,  he  would  creep  out  upon  the  pont 
du  Carrousel,  and  stand  for  half  an  afternoon, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  railing.  Behind  him,  the 
human  tide  swung  back  and  forward  from  bank 
to  bank,  the  big  omnibuses  making  the  bridge 
throb  and  sway  under  his  feet.  It  was  good, 
that,  like  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  little  boat  on 
the  swells  of  the  bras  de  Landerneau,  when  he 
rowed  up  with  a  comrade  to  fish  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Elorn.  And  there  was  always  the  Seine, 
whirling,  brown  and  angry,  under  the  arches  of 
the  pont  Royal  beyond,  on  its  way  to  the  sea, 
where  were  the  great,  green  battleships.  Little 
Tapin  strained  his  eyes  in  an  attempt  to  follow 
the  river's  long  sweep  to  the  left,  toward  the 
distant  towers  of  the  Trocadero,  and  then  pic- 
tured to  himself  how  it  would  go  on  and  on, 
out  into  the  good,  green  country,  past  hillsides 
crowded  with  vineyards,  and  broad,  flat  mea- 
dows, where  the  poplars  stood,  aligned  like 
soldiers,  against  the  sky,  until  it  broadened 


LITTLE  TAPIN  28? 

toward  its  end,  running  swifter  and  more  joy- 
ously, for  now  the  wind  had  met  it  and  was 
crying,  "  Come!  Come  !  The  Sea !  The  Sea !  " 
as  it  was  used  to  cry,  rattling  the  casement  of 
his  little  room  at  Plougastel.  Then  two  great 
tears  ran  slowly  down  his  freckled  cheeks,  and 
dropped,  unnoted,  into  the  flying  river,  wherein 
so  many  fall.  Ah,  what  a  baby  he  was,  to  be 
sure,  Little  Tapin  ! 

So  three  months  went  by,  and  then  one 
morning  the  news  ran  through  La  Pepiniere 
that  the  regiment  was  going  to  move.  There 
is  no  telling  how  such  tidings  get  abroad,  for 
the  pawns  are  not  supposed  to  know  what  part 
in  the  game  they  are  to  play.  A  loose-tongued 
lieutenant,  perhaps,  and  a  sharp-eared  ordon- 
nance,  or  a  word  between  two  commandants 
overheard  by  the  sentry  in  his  box  at  the  gates 
of  the  caserne.  Whatever  the  source  of  infor- 
mation, certain  it  was  that,  six  hours  after  the 
colonel  of  the  loyth  of  the  line  had  received 
his  orders,  his  newest  recruit  could  have  told 
you  as  much  of  them  as  was  known  to  General 
de  Galliifet  himself,  in  his  office  on  the  boule- 
vard St.  Germain. 

A  more  than  usually  friendly  comrade  con- 


288  LITTLE   TAPIN 

fided  the  news  to  Little  Tapin,  exulting.  The 
regiment  was  to  move  —  in  three  days,  name 
of  God  !  Epatant  —  what  ?  And,  what  was 
more,  they  were  to  go  to  the  south,  to  Greno- 
ble, whence  one  saw  the  Alpes  Maritimes,  with 
snow  upon  them  —  snow  upon  them,  did  Tapin 
comprehend  ?  —  and  always  !  No  matter  whe- 
ther it  was  a  Tuesday,  or  a  Friday,  —  yes,  or 
even  a  Sunday  !  There  was  always  snow  ! 

No,  Little  Tapin  could  hardly  comprehend. 
He  pondered  dully  upon  this  new  development 
of  his  fate  all  that  afternoon,  and  then,  sud- 
denly, while  he  was  beating  the  staccato  roll  of 
the  retraite  in  the  court  of  the  caserne  that 
night,  he  understood  !  Why,  it  was  to  go  fur- 
ther away,  this,  —  further  away  from  Plouga- 
stel,  and  the  Little  Mother,  and  Rosalie,  to  be 
stationed  in  God  knew  what  great  town,  cruel- 
ler, more  crowded  than  even  Paris  herself ! 

All  that  night  Little  Tapin  lay  staring  at  the 
ceiling  of  the  big  dortoir,  while  the  comrades 
breathed  heavily  around  him.  And,  little  by 
little,  the  spirit  of  rebellion  roused  and  stirred 
in  his  simple  Breton  heart.  For  he  hated 
it  all,  —  this  army,  this  dreary,  rigid  routine, 
this  contemptuous  comment  of  trim^  sneering 


LITTLE   TAPIN  289 


young  lieutenants,  with  waxed  mustaches,  and 
baggy  red  riding  breeches,  and  immaculately 
varnished  boots.  He  hated  his  own  uniform, 
which  another  tapin  had  worn  before  him,  and 
which,  in  consequence,  had  never  even  had  the 
charm  of  freshness.  He  hated  the  bugles, 
and  the  drums,  —  yes,  and,  more  than  all,  the 
tricolor,  the  flag  of  the  great,  cruel  Republic 
which  had  cooped  him  up  in  these  desolate 
barracks  of  La  Pepiniere,  instead  of  sending 
him  with  other  Bretons  out  to  the  arms  of  the 
blue  sea !  And,  when  gray  morning  crept 
through  the  windows  of  the  dortoir,  there  lay 
upon  the  pallet  of  Little  Tapin  a  deserter,  in 
spirit,  at  least,  from  the  icyth  of  the  line  ! 

That  day,  for  the  third  time  since  joining 
the  regiment,  Little  Tapin  was  detailed  as 
drummer  to  the  guard  at  the  Palais  du  Louvre. 
He  knew  what  that  meant,  —  a  long,  insuffer- 
ably tiresome  day,  with  nothing  to  do  save  to 
idle  about  a  doorway  of  the  palace,  opposite 
the  place  du  Palais  Royal,  watching  the  throng 
of  shoppers  scurrying  to  and  fro,  and  passing 
in  and  out  of  the  big  magasins  du  Louvre.  It 
was  only  as  sunset  approached  that  the  drum- 
mer of  the  guard  detail  had  any  duty  to  per- 


290  LITTLE  TAPIN 

form.  Then  he  marched,  all  alone,  with  his 
drum  slung  on  his  hip,  across  the  place  du  Car- 
rousel, and  down  the  wide  central  promenade 
of  the  Tuileries  gardens,  to  the  circular  basin 
at  their  western  end,  where,  on  pleasant  after- 
noons, the  little  Parisians  —  and  some,  too, 
of  larger  growth  —  manoeuvred  their  miniature 
yachts,  to  the  extreme  vexation  of  the  sluggish 
gold-fish.  There,  standing  motionless,  like  a 
sketch  by  Edouard  Detaille,  he  watched  the 
sun  creep  lower,  lower,  behind  the  arc  de 
1'Etoile,  until  it  went  out  of  sight,  and  then, 
turning,  he  marched  back,  drumming  sturdily, 
to  warn  all  who  lingered  in  the  gardens  that 
the  gates  were  about  to  close. 

But  they  were  not  good  for  Little  Tapin,  those 
hours  of  idleness  at  the  portals  of  the  palace. 
It  is  the  second  busiest  and  most  densely 
thronged  spot  in  Paris,  this  :  first  the  place  de 
l'Op6ra,  and  then  the  place  du  Palais  Royal. 
And  to  Little  Tapin's  eyes,  as  he  glanced  up 
and  down  the  rue  de  Rivoli,  the  great  city 
seemed  more  careless,  more  cruel  than  ever, 
and  bit  by  bit  the  rebellious  impulse  born  in 
the  dortoir  grew  stronger,  more  irresistible. 
His  Breton  mind  was  slow  to  action,  but,  once 


LITTLE  TAPIN  291 

set  in  a  direction,  it  was  obstinacy  itself.  He 
took  no  heed  of  consequences.  If  he  realized 
at  any  stage  of  his  meditation  what  the  out- 
come of  desertion  must  inevitably  be,  it  was 
only  to  put  the  thought  resolutely  from  him. 
Capture,  court-martial,  imprisonment,  they 
were  only  names  to  him.  What  was  real  was 
that  he  should  see  Plougastel  again,  sit  hand 
in  hand  with  Rosalie,  and  refind  his  comrades, 
the  wide,  sunlit  harbor,  and  the  impatient 
western  wind,  for  which  his  heart  was  aching. 
What  was  false  and  unbearable  was  longer  ser- 
vice in  an  army  that  he  loathed. 

He  arranged  the  details  of  escape  in  his 
mind,  as  he  sat  apart  from  his  comrades  of  the 
guard,  fingering  the  drum-cords.  An  hour's 
leave  upon  the  morrow  —  certainly  the  tam- 
bour-major would  grant  him  so  much,  if  he 
said  it  was  to  bid  his  sister  good-by ;  then,  a 
change  from  his  detested  uniform  to  a  cheap 
civile  in  the  shop  of  some  second-hand  dealer 
in  the  Gobelins  quarter ;  and,  finally,  a  quick 
dash  to  the  gare  Montparnasse,  when  he  should 
have  learned  the  hour  of  his  train,  and  so, 
away  to  Finistere.  It  sounded  extremely  sim- 
ple, as  all  such  plans  do,  when  the  wish  is  fa- 


292  LITTLE  TAPIN 

ther  to  the  thought,  and  in  his  calculations  he 
went  no  further  than  Plougastel.  After  that, 
one  would  see.  So  the  long  afternoon  stole 
past. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  lieutenant  of  the  guard 
touched  Little  Tapin  upon  the  shoulder,  and, 
more  by  instinct  than  actual  perception,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  saluted. 

"  Voyons,  mon  petit,"  said  the  officer,  not 
unkindly.  4l  It  is  time  thou  wast  off.  Thou 
knowest  thy  duty  —  eh  ?  There  is  no  need  of 
instructions  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ga  me  connait,  mon  lieutenant,"  an- 
swered Little  Tapin  quaintly,  and,  presently, 
he  was  striding  away  to  his  post,  under  the  arc 
de  Triomphe,  past  the  statues,  and  the  flower- 
beds, and  the  dancing  fountains,  across  the 
rue  des  Tuileries,  and  so  into  the  wide,  central 
promenade  of  the  gardens  beyond. 

The  old  woman  who  sold  cakes,  and  reglisse, 
and  balloons  to  the  children,  was  putting  up 
the  shutters  of  her  little  booth  as  he  passed, 
and  two  others  were  piling  wooden  chairs  in 
ungainly  pyramids  under  the  trees,  though  the 
gardens  were  still  full  of  people,  hurrying  north 
and  south  on  the  transverse  paths  leading  to 


LITTLE  TAPIN  293 

the  rue  de  Rivoli  or  to  the  quai  and  the  pont 
de  Solferino.  But,  curiously  enough,  the  open 
space  around  the  western  basin  was  almost  de- 
serted as  Little  Tapin  took  his  position,  facing 
the  great  grille. 

The  mid-August  afternoon  had  been  oppres- 
sively warm,  and  now  a  thin  haze  had  risen 
from  the  wet  wood  pavement  of  the  place  de 
la  Concorde,  and  hovered  low,  pink  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun.  Directly  before  Lit- 
tle Tapin  the  obelisk  raised  its  warning  fin- 
ger, and  beyond,  the  Champs  Elysees,  thickly 
dotted  with  carriages,  and  half  veiled  by  great 
splotches  of  ruddy-yellow  dust,  swept  away  in 
a  long,  upward  curve  toward  the  distant  arc  de 
1'Etoile. 

But  of  all  this  Little  Tapin  saw  nothing. 
He  stood  very  still,  with  his  back  to  the  basin, 
where  the  fat  goldfish  went  to  and  fro  like  lazy 
sentinels,  on  the  watch  for  a  possible  belated 
little  boy,  with  a  pocket  full  of  crumbs.  He 
was  still  deep  in  his  dream  of  Plougastel,  so 
deep  that  he  could  almost  smell  the  salt  breeze 
rollicking  in  from  the  Goulet,  and  hear  the 
chapel  bell  sending  the  Angelus  out  over  the 
strawberry  fields  and  the  rock-dotted  hillside. 


294  LITTLE  TAPIN 

After  a  minute,  something  —  a  teamster's 
shout,  or  the  snap  of  a  cocher's  whip  —  roused 
him,  and  he  glanced  around  with  the  same  half- 
sensation  of  terror  with  which  he  had  wakened 
in  the  night  to  hear  the  guards  shouting  "  Le 
Mans  !  "  and  "  Chartres  !  "  Then  the  reality 
came  back  to  him  with  a  rush,  and  he  grumbled 
to  himself.  Oh,  it  was  all  very  well,  the  wonder- 
ful French  army,  all  very  well  if  one  could  have 
been  a  marshal  or  a  general,  or  even  a  soldier 
of  the  line  in  time  of  war.  There  was  a  chance 
for  glory,  bon  sang  !  But  to  be  a  drummer  — 
a  drummer  one  metre  seventy  in  height,  with 
flaming  red  hair  and  a  freckled  face  —  a  drum- 
mer who  was  called  Little  Tapin ;  and  to  have, 
for  one's  most  important  duty,  to  drum  the 
loungers  out  of  a  public  garden !  No,  evi- 
dently he  would  desert. 

"  But  why  ?  "  said  a  grave  voice  beside  him. 

Little  Tapin  was  greatly  startled.  He  had 
not  thought  he  was  saying  the  words  aloud. 
And  his  fear  increased  when,  on  turning  to  see 
who  had  spoken,  he  found  himself  looking  into 
the  eyes  of  one  who  was  evidently  an  officer, 
though  his  uniform  was  unfamiliar.  He  was 
plain-shaven  and  very  short,  almost  as  short, 


LITTLE  TAPIN  295 


indeed,  as  Little  Tapin  himself,  but  about  him 
there  was  a  something  of  dignity  and  command 
which  could  not  fail  of  its  effect.  He  wore  a 
great  black  hat  like  a  gendarme's,  but  without 
trimming,  and  a  blue  coat  with  a  white  plastron, 
the  tails  lined  with  scarlet,  and  the  sleeves 
ending  in  red  and  white  cuffs.  White  breeches, 
and  knee-boots  carefully  polished,  completed 
the  uniform,  and  from  over  his  right  shoulder 
a  broad  band  of  crimson  silk  was  drawn 
tightly  across  his  breast.  A  short  sword  hung 
straight  at  his  hip,  and  on  his  left  breast  were 
three  orders  on  red  ribbons,  —  a  great  star, 
with  an  eagle  in  the  centre,  backed  by  a  sun- 
burst studded  with  brilliants;  another  eagle, 
this  one  of  white  enamel,  pendant  from  a  jew- 
eled crown,  and  a  smaller  star  of  enameled 
white  and  green,  similar  to  the  large  one. 

Little  Tapin  had  barely  mastered  these  de- 
tails when  the  other  spoke  again. 

"  Why  art  thou  thinking  to  desert  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Monsieur  is  an  officer  ?  "  faltered  the  drum- 
mer, —  "a  general,  perhaps.  Pardon,  but  I  do 
not  know  the  uniform." 

"  A  corporal,  simply  —  a  soldier  of  France, 
like  thyself.  Be  not  afraid,  my  little  one.  All 


296  LITTLE  TAPIN 


thou  sayest  shall  be  held  in  confidence.  Tell 
me  thy  difficulties." 

His  voice  was  very  kind,  the  kindest  Little 
Tapin  had  heard  in  three  long  months,  and 
suddenly  the  barrier  of  his  Breton  reserve  gave 
and  broke.  The  nervous  strain  had  been  too 
great.  He  must  have  sympathy  and  advice  — 
yes,  even  though  it  meant  confiding  in  a  stran- 
ger and  the  possible  discovery  and  failure  of 
his  dearly  cherished  plans. 

"  A  soldier  of  France  !  "  he  exclaimed,  im- 
pulsively. "  Ah,  monsieur,  there  you  have  all 
my  difficulty.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  sol- 
dier of  France!  And  not  even  that,  but  a 
drummer,  a  drummer  who  is  called  Little  Ta- 
pin because  he  is  the  smallest  and  weakest  in 
the  corps.  To  be  taken  from  home,  from  the 
country  he  loves,  from  Brittany,  and  made  to 
serve  among  men  who  despise  him,  who  laugh 
at  him,  who  avoid  him  in  the  hours  of  leave, 
because  he  is  not  bon  camarade.  To  wear  a 
uniform  that  has  been  already  worn.  To  sleep 
in  a  dormitory  where  there  are  betes  funestes. 
To  have  no  friends.  To  know  that  he  is  not 
to  see  Plougastel,  and  the  sweetheart,  and  the 
Little  Mother  for  three  years.  Never  to  fight, 


LITTLE  TAPIN  297 

but,  at  best,  to  drum  voyous  out  of  a  garden  ! 
That,  monsieur,  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  soldier  of 
France  ! " 

There  were  tears  in  Little  Tapin's  eyes  now, 
but  he  was  more  angry  than  sad.  The  silence 
of  months  was  broken,  and  the  hoarded  re- 
sentment and  despair  of  his  long  martyrdom, 
once  given  rein,  were  not  to  be  checked  a  sec- 
ond time.  He  threw  back  his  narrow  shoul- 
ders defiantly,  and  said  a  hideous  thing :  — 

"  Conspuez  Tarmac  franchise  !  " 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  and  then  the 
other  leaned  forward,  and  with  one  white- 
gloved  hand  touched  Little  Tapin  on  the  eyes. 

Before  them  a  great  plain,  sloping  very  grad- 
ually upward  in  all  directions,  like  a  vast,  shal- 
low amphitheatre,  spread  away  in  a  long  series 
of  low  terraces  to  where,  in  the  dim  distance, 
the  peaks  of  a  range  of  purple  hills  nicked  and 
notched  a  sky  of  palest  turquoise.  From  where 
they  stood,  upon  a  slight  elevation,  the  details 
of  even  the  farthest  slopes  seemed  singularly 
clean-cut  and  distinct,  —  the  groups  of  grey 
willows;  the  poplars,  standing  stiffly  in  twos 
and  threes ;  the  short  silver  reaches  of  a  little 


298  LITTLE  TAPIN 

river,  lying  in  the  hollows  where  the  land  occa- 
sionally dipped ;  at  long  intervals,  a  white- 
washed cottage,  gleaming  like  a  sail  against 
this  sea  of  green;  even,  on  the  most  distant 
swell  of  all,  a  herd  of  ruddy  cattle,  moving 
slowly  up  toward  the  crest,  —  each  and  all  of 
these,  although  in  merest  miniature,  as  clear 
and  vivid  in  form  and  color  as  if  they  had  been 
the  careful  creations  of  a  Claude  Lorrain. 

Directly  before  the  knoll  upon  which  they 
were  stationed,  a  wide  road,  dazzling  white  in 
the  sunlight,  swept  in  a  superb  full  curve  from 
left  to  right,  and  on  its  further  side  the  ground 
was  covered  with  close-cropped  turf,  and  com- 
pletely empty  for  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
metres.  But  beyond  !  Beyond,  every  hectare 
of  the  great  semicircle  was  occupied  by  dense 
masses  of  cavalry,  infantry,  and  artillery,  regi- 
ment upon  regiment,  division  upon  division, 
corps  upon  corps,  an  innumerable  multitude, 
motionless,  as  if  carved  out  of  many-colored 
marbles ! 

In  some  curious,  unaccountable  fashion,  Lit- 
tle Tapin  seemed  to  know  all  these  by  name. 
There,  to  the  left,  were  the  chasseurs  a  pied, 
their  huge  bearskins  flecked  with  red  and  green 


LITTLE  TAPIN  299 


pompons,  and  their  white  cross-belts  slashed 
like  capital  X's  against  the  blue  of  their  tunics  ; 
there,  beside  them,  the  foot  artillery,  a  long 
row  of  metal  collar  plates,  like  dots  of  gold, 
and  gold  trappings  against  dark  blue ;  to  the 
right,  the  Garde  Royale  Hollandaise,  in  bril- 
liant crimson  and  white;  in  the  centre,  the 
infantry  of  the  Guard,  with  tall,  straight  pom- 
pons, red  above  white,  and  square  black  sha- 
kos, trimmed  with  scarlet  cord. 

Close  at  hand,  surrounding  Little  Tapin 
and  his  companion,  were  the  most  brilliant 
figures  of  the  scene,  and  these,  too,  he  seemed 
to  know  by  name.  None  was  missing.  Prince 
Murat,  in  a  cream-white  uniform  blazing  with 
gold  embroidery,  and  with  a  scarlet  ribbon 
across  his  breast;  a  group  of  marshals,  Ney, 
Oudinot,  Duroc,  Macdonald,  Augereau,  and 
Soult,  with  their  yellow  sashes,  and  cocked 
hats  laced  with  gold ;  a  score  of  generals,  La- 
rouche,  Durosnel,  Marmont,  Letort,  Henrion, 
Chasteller,  and  the  rest,  with  white  instead  of 
gold  upon  their  hats,  —  clean-shaven,  severe 
of  brow  and  lip-line,  they  stood  without  move- 
ment, their  gauntleted  hands  upon  their  sword- 
hilts,  gazing  straight  before  them. 


300  LITTLE  TAPIN 

Little  Tapin  drew  a  deep  breath. 

Suddenly  from  somewhere  came  a  short, 
sharp  bugle  note,  and  instantly  the  air  was  full 
of  the  sound  of  hoofs,  and  the  ring  of  scab- 
bards and  stirrup-irons,  and  the  wide  white  road 
before  them  alive  with  flying  cavalry.  Squadron 
after  squadron,  they  thundered  by :  mounted 
chasseurs,  with  pendants  of  orange-colored 
cloth  fluttering  from  their  shakos,  and  plaits  of 
powdered  hair  bobbing  at  their  cheeks  ;  Polish 
light  horse,  with  metal  sunbursts  gleaming  on 
their  square-topped  helmets,  and  crimson  and 
white  pennons  snapping  in  the  wind  at  the 
points  of  their  lances ;  Old  Guard  cavalry, 
with  curving  helmets  like  Roman  legionaries ; 
Mamelukes,  with  full  red  trousers,  white  and 
scarlet  turbans,  strange  standards  of  horsehair 
surmounted  by  the  imperial  eagle,  brazen  stir- 
rups singularly  fashioned,  and  horse  trappings 
of  silver  with  flying  crimson  tassels ;  Horse 
Chasseurs  of  the  Guard,  in  hussar  tunics  and 
yellow  breeches,  their  sabretaches  swinging  as 
they  rode  :  and  Red  Lancers,  in  gay  uniforms 
of  green  and  scarlet.  Like  a  whirlwind  they 
went  past,  —  each  squadron,  in  turn,  wheeling 
to  the  left,  and  coming  to  a  halt  in  the  open 


LITTLE  TAPIN  301 


space  beyond  the  road,  until  the  last  lancer 
swept  by. 

A  thick  cloud  of  white  dust,  stirred  into  be- 
ing by  the  flying  horses,  now  hung  between  the 
army  and  the  knoll,  and  through  this  one  saw 
dimly  the  mounted  band  of  the  2oth  Chas- 
seurs, on  gray  stallions,  occupying  the  centre 
of  the  line,  and  heard,  what  before  had  been 
drowned  by  the  thunder  of  hoofs,  the  strains 
of  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie." 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  dust  cloud  thinned  and 
lifted,  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  would 
never  wholly  clear.  But,  on  a 'sudden,  a  sharp 
puff  of  wind  sent  it  whirling  off  in  arabesques 
to  the  left,  and  the  whole  plain  lay  revealed. 

"  Bon  Dieu  !  "  said  Little  Tapin. 

The  first  rank  of  cavalry  was  stationed  within 
a  metre  of  the  further  border  of  the  road,  the 
line  sweeping  off  to  the  left  and  right  until  de- 
tails became  indistinguishable.  And  beyond, 
reaching  away  in  a  solid  mass,  the  vast  host 
dwindled  and  dwindled,  back  to  where  the 
ascending  slopes  were  broken  by  the  distant 
willows  and  the  reaches  of  the  silver  stream. 
With  snowy  white  of  breeches  and  plastrons, 
with  lustre  of  scarlet  velvet  and  gold  lace,  with 


302  LITTLE  TAPIN 

sparkle  of  helmet  and  cuirass,  and  dull  black 
of  bearskin  and  smoothly  groomed  flanks,  the 
army  blazed  and  glowed  in  the  golden  sunlight 
like  a  mosaic  of  a  hundred  thousand  jewels. 
Silent,  expectant,  the  legions  flashed  crimson, 
emerald,  and  sapphire,  rolling  away  in  broad 
swells  of  light  and  color,  motionless  save  for  a 
long,  slow  heave,  as  of  the  ocean,  lying,  vividly 
iridescent,  under  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  Then,  without  warning,  as  if  the  touch 
of  a  magician's  wand  had  roused  the  multitude 
to  life,  a  myriad  sabres  swept  twinkling  from 
their  scabbards,  and,  by  tens  of  thousands,  the 
guns  of  the  infantry  snapped  with  a  sharp  click 
to  a  present  arms.  The  bugles  sounded  all 
along  the  line,  the  tricolors  dipped  until  their 
golden  fringes  almost  swept  the  ground,  the 
troopers  stood  upright  in  their  stirrups,  their 
heads  thrown  back,  their  bronzed  faces  turned 
toward  the  knoll,  their  eyes  blazing.  And  from 
the  farthest  slopes  inward,  like  thunder  that 
growls  afar,  and,  coming  nearer,  swells  into 
unbearable  volume,  a  hoarse  cry  ran  down  the 
massed  battalions  and  broke  in  a  stupendous 
roar  upon  the  shuddering  air,  — 
"  Vive  1'empereur !  " 


LITTLE  TAPIN  303 


Little  Tapin  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  ill,"  he  murmured.  "  I  have  been 
faint.  I  seemed  to  see  "  — 

"  Thou  hast  seen,"  said  the  voice  of  his 
companion,  very  softly,  very  solemnly,  —  "  thou 
hast  seen  simply  what  it  is  to  be  a  soldier  of 
France  !  " 

His  hand  rested  an  instant  on  the  drum- 
mer's shoulder,  with  the  ghost  of  a  caress. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  added,  tenderly,  "  forget 
not  this.  It  matters  nothing  whether  one  is 
Emperor  of  the  French  or  the  smallest  drum- 
mer of  the  corps,  whom  men  call  '  Little  Ta- 
pin.' I,  too,  was  called  '  little  '  in  the  time  — 
'  The  Little  Corporal '  they  called  me,  from 
Moscow  to  the  Loire.  But  it  is  all  the  same. 
Chief  of  the  army,  drummer  of  the  corps,  on 
the  field  of  battle,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuile- 
ries,  routing  the  Prussians,  or  drumming  out 
the  voyous,  —  it  is  all  the  same,  my  little  one, 
it  is  all  the  same.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to 
understand  —  to  understand  that  it  is  all  and 
always  for  la  belle  France.  Empire  or  repub- 
lic, in  peace  or  war  —  what  difference  ?  It  is 
still  France,  still  the  tricolor,  still  Parme'e  fran- 
£aise." 


304  LITTLE  TAPIN 


He  lifted  his  hat,  and  looked  steadily  up  at 
the  sky,  where  the  first  stars  were  shouldering 
their  way  into  view. 

"  Vive  la  France  !  "  he  added.  And  on  his 
lips  the  phrase  was  like  a  prayer. 

Through  the  arc  de  PEtoile  the  fading  sun- 
set looked  back,  as  upon  something  it  was 
loath  to  leave.  Then  Little  Tapin  flung  back 
his  head.  There  was  a  strange,  new  light  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  breath  came  quickly,  between 
parted  lips.  Without  a  word  he  swung  upon 
his  heels,  slipped  his  drum  into  place,  and 
marched  steadily  away,  beating  the  long  roll. 
Once,  when  he  had  gone  a  hundred  metres,  he 
looked  back.  The  figure  of  the  Little  Corpo- 
ral was  still  standing  beside  the  basin,  but  now 
it  was  very  thin  and  faint,  like  the  dust  clouds 
on  the  Champs  Elyse'es.  But,  as  the  little 
drummer  turned,  it  raised  one  hand  to  its  fore- 
head in  salute. 

Little  Tapin  stood  motionless  for  an  instant, 
and  then  he  smiled,  and,  through  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  — 

«  Vive  I'arme'e  !  "  he  shouted,  shrilly.  "  Vive 
la  France  ! " 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &*  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


(Lbt 

-•cm 


